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rejectomorphIt just dawned (see what I'm about to do here?) on me that Daylight Saving Time has begun. A fairly long sleep Saturday evening which proved difficult to end despite repeated distressing wakings with remembered fragments of bad dreams led to my eating Saturday's dinner for today's breakfast, which I finished only a short time ago. When I notice that daylight is here just as I swig the last of my Guinness I know that something strange has happened. I opened a bottle of tamarind flavored Jaritos and mixed a bit with some plain sparkling water and a shot of vodka by way of celebration/mourning/confusion and will call it dessert. I already had some cake before dinner, because everything is back-asswards in my life anyway.
Saturday's potential for rain was never fulfilled. Today's potential is supposed to be greater, so maybe we'll get some. I might be awake for part of it at least. Morning has found me gasping for significance. Anything? Nope, nothing. Well, there's the unwelcome news that eight days hence we could get a high of eighty degrees, but I'd rather not even think about that, let alone talk about it. I think I'd like to talk about what I was doing sixty years ago but damn, I've forgotten. Probably just a well. It would probably make me weep.
Sunday Verse
by Richard Siken
I take off my hands and I give them to you but you don't
want them, so I take them back
and put them on the wrong way, the wrong wrists. The yard is dark,
the tomatoes are next to the whitewashed wall,
the book on the table is about Spain,
the windows are painted shut.
Tonight you're thinking of cities under crowns
of snow and I stare at you like I'm looking through a window,
counting birds.
You wanted happiness, I can't blame you for that,
and maybe a mouth sounds idiotic when it blathers on about joy
but tell me
you love this, tell me you're not miserable.
You do the math, you expect the trouble.
The seaside town. The electric fence.
Draw a circle with a piece of chalk. Imagine standing in a constant cone
of light. Imagine surrender. Imagine being useless.
A stone on the path means the tea's not ready,
a stone in the hand means somebody's angry, the stone inside you still
hasn't hit bottom.
Saturday's potential for rain was never fulfilled. Today's potential is supposed to be greater, so maybe we'll get some. I might be awake for part of it at least. Morning has found me gasping for significance. Anything? Nope, nothing. Well, there's the unwelcome news that eight days hence we could get a high of eighty degrees, but I'd rather not even think about that, let alone talk about it. I think I'd like to talk about what I was doing sixty years ago but damn, I've forgotten. Probably just a well. It would probably make me weep.
Sunday Verse
Seaside Improvisation
by Richard Siken
I take off my hands and I give them to you but you don't
want them, so I take them back
and put them on the wrong way, the wrong wrists. The yard is dark,
the tomatoes are next to the whitewashed wall,
the book on the table is about Spain,
the windows are painted shut.
Tonight you're thinking of cities under crowns
of snow and I stare at you like I'm looking through a window,
counting birds.
You wanted happiness, I can't blame you for that,
and maybe a mouth sounds idiotic when it blathers on about joy
but tell me
you love this, tell me you're not miserable.
You do the math, you expect the trouble.
The seaside town. The electric fence.
Draw a circle with a piece of chalk. Imagine standing in a constant cone
of light. Imagine surrender. Imagine being useless.
A stone on the path means the tea's not ready,
a stone in the hand means somebody's angry, the stone inside you still
hasn't hit bottom.
