rejectomorph (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
rejectomorph) wrote2023-03-05 06:36 am
rejectomorph) wrote2023-03-05 06:36 am
Reset Forty-Eight, Day Nineteen
Digital world decided to take a dump on me Saturday. I spent hours futzing with the website for CVS, trying to put together an order with a 32% off coupon, finding the site extraordinarily catawampus, and finally finding all the right hoops and jumping through them the right way, getting it all organized, then having even more hassles with the checkout, having the order fail because my card was refused, then having it go through after another try, then getting an email from CVS saying the order had been canceled, and then finally getting another email from some fraud watch outfit reporting suspicious activity on my card, which was probably just from me having to repeatedly go back and correct several mistakes I made while typing because I'm old as somebody's god and damned near blind and just make shitloads of mistakes.
There's a number I'm supposed to call, but I had to stop and eat something as my blood sugar had collapsed, and I'm tired and it's way past my bedtime and I'm probably not going to get the stuff I wanted, and the digital coupon for the discount ends today. So I'm now quite crankier than usual, and out of every sort of sorts there is, and I've lived way too long in a world I can't keep up with anymore, and just want to go to sleep, but should probably call that number, assuming it's a legit service and not scammers of some sort. I can't check with my bank which issued the card until their office opens at seven o'clock Monday morning, and that's too late if I want to use the card for anything else today, which I do. Smart technology is a pig's breakfast, and, as Alexander Pope observed, "one hog lives on what another shits."
Well I guess I have to get on with it. At least I'm posting a journal entry. If that doesn't fail too.
Sunday Verse
by Joel Toledo
Surely
we are not built for simple death
and forgetting; someone carved
these letters and the names are spelled
with deep, defined strokes. So easy then,
careful, the moths are tracing shadow arcs
against the dull light before resting whole
on the wooden walls. We learn of it
early on, how the eye
stings from their powdery feathers,
how we should avoid touching them.
And I come to a grave. The grass has grown
and the stones ache for release.
I see it now, small punctures of time
gathering into veins on the worn tablets,
complicating my thoughts. The years
mock me; they make me want
to compute, measure age
like there is no grief worse than visiting,
no pain more profound than absence.
If I am not here, then who is to say
a snakebite is dangerous? Who will insist
that the flapping of small wings can contain
such distress?
And what’s that moving in the bushes?
There's a number I'm supposed to call, but I had to stop and eat something as my blood sugar had collapsed, and I'm tired and it's way past my bedtime and I'm probably not going to get the stuff I wanted, and the digital coupon for the discount ends today. So I'm now quite crankier than usual, and out of every sort of sorts there is, and I've lived way too long in a world I can't keep up with anymore, and just want to go to sleep, but should probably call that number, assuming it's a legit service and not scammers of some sort. I can't check with my bank which issued the card until their office opens at seven o'clock Monday morning, and that's too late if I want to use the card for anything else today, which I do. Smart technology is a pig's breakfast, and, as Alexander Pope observed, "one hog lives on what another shits."
Well I guess I have to get on with it. At least I'm posting a journal entry. If that doesn't fail too.
Sunday Verse
Those Days, Those Serpents
by Joel Toledo
Surely
we are not built for simple death
and forgetting; someone carved
these letters and the names are spelled
with deep, defined strokes. So easy then,
careful, the moths are tracing shadow arcs
against the dull light before resting whole
on the wooden walls. We learn of it
early on, how the eye
stings from their powdery feathers,
how we should avoid touching them.
And I come to a grave. The grass has grown
and the stones ache for release.
I see it now, small punctures of time
gathering into veins on the worn tablets,
complicating my thoughts. The years
mock me; they make me want
to compute, measure age
like there is no grief worse than visiting,
no pain more profound than absence.
If I am not here, then who is to say
a snakebite is dangerous? Who will insist
that the flapping of small wings can contain
such distress?
And what’s that moving in the bushes?