Reset Forty-Six, Day Five
Nov. 13th, 2022 05:04 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rejectomorphAnother Saturday short of sleep, then a sandwich that left me a bit bloated and nauseated, followed by an evening nap that lasted until two o'clock, but didn't leave me feeling rested, then a couple of hours of feeling about as crappy as I've felt in years, and now a ramen bowl to see if that makes me feel any better. I don't expect it to. I'm still glad the hot weather is gone, but damn, the nights have gotten cold fast! More sleep soon, I hope. Meanwhile.
Sunday Verse
by Joel M. Toledo
Yes, the world is strange, riddled with difficult sciences
and random magic. But there are compensations, things we do
perceive: the high cries and erratic spirals of sparrows,
the sky gray and now giving in to the regular rain.
Still we insist on meaning, that common consolation
that, now and then, makes for beauty. Or disaster.
Listen. The new figures are simply those of birds,
the whole notes of their flightless bodies now snagged
on the many scales of the city. And it's just some thunder,
the usual humming of wires. It is only in its breaking
that the rain gives itself away. So come now and assemble
with the weather, notice the water gathering on your cupped
and extended hands — familiar and wet and meaningless.
You are merely being cleansed. Bare instead
the scarred heart; notice how its wild human music
makes such sense. Come, the divining
can wait.
Let us examine the wreckage.
Sunday Verse
The Same Old Figurative
by Joel M. Toledo
Yes, the world is strange, riddled with difficult sciences
and random magic. But there are compensations, things we do
perceive: the high cries and erratic spirals of sparrows,
the sky gray and now giving in to the regular rain.
Still we insist on meaning, that common consolation
that, now and then, makes for beauty. Or disaster.
Listen. The new figures are simply those of birds,
the whole notes of their flightless bodies now snagged
on the many scales of the city. And it's just some thunder,
the usual humming of wires. It is only in its breaking
that the rain gives itself away. So come now and assemble
with the weather, notice the water gathering on your cupped
and extended hands — familiar and wet and meaningless.
You are merely being cleansed. Bare instead
the scarred heart; notice how its wild human music
makes such sense. Come, the divining
can wait.
Let us examine the wreckage.
