Kick November's Arse!

[rejectomorph]

So the drizzle stopped early this afternoon and I went out shopping and didn't get wet. I spent more money than I'd expected to, but now I have Guinness and Sierra nevada Porter, plus some Sierra Nevada Tumbler left from last week. I'm set for any storm! The gas range will heat up any number of cans of beans or soup, boil many pots of pasta hot enough to melt grated cheese, and if necessary pop the last of my popcorn and melt butter for it.

I'm hoping it won't come to that, of course. I like to use my electric oven, not to mention my television and my computer. But should worse come to worst, and the town be buried in snow, I can hold out here for at least a week. Not that this would be any rare accomplishment, as I hold out for a week just about every week. But the plenitude of brews will help me imagine myself heroic in doing so. It always does.




Sunday Verse

SF

by David Lehman


SF stood for Sigmund Freud, or serious folly,
for science fiction in San Francisco, or fear
in the south of France. The system failed.
The siblings fought. So far, such fury,
as if a funeral sequence of sharps and flats
set free a flamboyant signature, sinful, fanatic,
the fire sermon of a secular fundamentalist,
a singular fellow's Symphonie Fantastique.

Students forget the state's favorite son's face.
Sorry, friends, for the screws of fate.
Stage fright seduces the faithful for subway fare
as slobs fake sobs, suckers flee, salesmen fade.
Sad the fops. Sudden the flip side of fame.
So find the segue. Finish the speculative frame.