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To Follow Days
Jul. 1st, 2007 07:46 pmJuly sneaked up on me this year. June's end came and I forgot to note that the full moon I saw was the month's second. I don't know where my attention was. I don't know where it is. I keep thinking I keep missing deadlines, but I don't know what deadlines I have. It's merely delusion, probably brought on by fried brain, the summer heat being allowed to surround my head.
That's one of the problems with air—that one when in it is exposed to other things that are in it (and one's alternative to being in it is not pleasant at all, no.) It's not so bad when it's just odors, such as that released by the skunk who of late has nightly sprayed someone or something hereabout. Odors, unless their source is persistent, soon dissipate. But heat lasts and lasts (by day at least) when July has arrived. July lasts and lasts, too, for thirty more days. July is a bitch and then there's August.
But rather than just grouse I've made iced tea and will soon go out into evening's cooling air and listen to the birds sing their evening songs. The insectoid rhythm section will be much diminished though, the crickets being going away these nights, and thus reminding me that time eventually devours summer. Summer and crickets and I have that in common. Sooner or later, everything's going to get cooled.
Over at![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
greatpoets a contretemps broke out following somebody posting one of the not-best translations of one of a certain surrealist poet's not-best poems. I have one of that poet's poems I think better than the not-best one in question, and in a translation I'd say was not half bad. Look!
( Sunday Verse )
That's one of the problems with air—that one when in it is exposed to other things that are in it (and one's alternative to being in it is not pleasant at all, no.) It's not so bad when it's just odors, such as that released by the skunk who of late has nightly sprayed someone or something hereabout. Odors, unless their source is persistent, soon dissipate. But heat lasts and lasts (by day at least) when July has arrived. July lasts and lasts, too, for thirty more days. July is a bitch and then there's August.
But rather than just grouse I've made iced tea and will soon go out into evening's cooling air and listen to the birds sing their evening songs. The insectoid rhythm section will be much diminished though, the crickets being going away these nights, and thus reminding me that time eventually devours summer. Summer and crickets and I have that in common. Sooner or later, everything's going to get cooled.
Over at
greatpoets a contretemps broke out following somebody posting one of the not-best translations of one of a certain surrealist poet's not-best poems. I have one of that poet's poems I think better than the not-best one in question, and in a translation I'd say was not half bad. Look!( Sunday Verse )
