Reset Forty-Nine, Day Two Hundred Twelve
Dec. 24th, 2023 07:51 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rejectomorphThe king size blanket I accidentally bought is soft and comfy, but since I have to fold it in half to fit my twin bed it is prone to bunching and slipping and becoming disarrayed while I'm under it, and that's what happened Saturday night, when I slept long but poorly and mingled unremembered dreams with half remembered nocturnal daydreams and wished I'd gotten around to eating dinner before sleeping, and I tried but failed to remember just what night of the week it was, and would it ever end? To be honest, many if not most nights and days are like that now, and I doubt they (or I) 'll get any more coherent ever again. Coherent is over, so I'll just have to make the best of WT ever-loving F is going on in my head?
So there. And whatever the hell happened Saturday is probably why I'm now having a breakfast beer Sunday morning with some chili cheese Fritos and listening to Chris Rea sing about a sweet summer day on repeat while the gray winter morning fondles the bare trees of the mini-metropolis. The spot in my cheek I lately re-bit is reacting badly to the salt on the Fritos, but the beer washes the salt away and leaves only a mild soreness until the next Frito intrudes. And so, as Kurt Vonnegut many onces said, it goes. Put my troubles in my right hand, hold 'em up and let 'em go and OW my shoulder. Old. So freaking old.
Sunday Verse
by Ron Koertge
The way he was sewn together
made their skin feel so smooth.
His green cheese complexion
and stupid haircut made them,
by contrast, attractive and
fashionable.
They didn't have to borrow
some stiff's heart. And they had real
souls, too, not just fistfuls of bad
weather.
Hey, remember the torches and clubs?
Remember running around half-nuts
all night? And then it was so great
to come home: a bubbling tureen
of soup, wolfsbane on the mantle,
garlic over the door, those grateful
wives who'd never looked as good
before or since.
So there. And whatever the hell happened Saturday is probably why I'm now having a breakfast beer Sunday morning with some chili cheese Fritos and listening to Chris Rea sing about a sweet summer day on repeat while the gray winter morning fondles the bare trees of the mini-metropolis. The spot in my cheek I lately re-bit is reacting badly to the salt on the Fritos, but the beer washes the salt away and leaves only a mild soreness until the next Frito intrudes. And so, as Kurt Vonnegut many onces said, it goes. Put my troubles in my right hand, hold 'em up and let 'em go and OW my shoulder. Old. So freaking old.
Sunday Verse
On the Anniversary of His Death the Men of the
Village Meet to Talk About Frankenstein
by Ron Koertge
The way he was sewn together
made their skin feel so smooth.
His green cheese complexion
and stupid haircut made them,
by contrast, attractive and
fashionable.
They didn't have to borrow
some stiff's heart. And they had real
souls, too, not just fistfuls of bad
weather.
Hey, remember the torches and clubs?
Remember running around half-nuts
all night? And then it was so great
to come home: a bubbling tureen
of soup, wolfsbane on the mantle,
garlic over the door, those grateful
wives who'd never looked as good
before or since.
