51/24: Lets Pretend

[rejectomorph]

Saturday brought nothing either terrible or wonderful, but only the monotony of characteristic mediocrity. Dinner was timely and microwaved, making a nice change from the recent strange hours and my own wretched cooking. I went to bed before the night was cool enough to have the windows opened, then woke up after midnight and opened them. The Saturday night noises of the mini-metropolis then kept me awake for some time, but eventually I dropped off again and slept until four this morning.

At least this is what I think happened. I actually don't remember it at all, and the only reason I know I ate something is because the dirty microwave container is in the sink. But seeing that my life is no more significant than it is eventful, it probably doesn't matter if the story is true or not. Here is what is important: The apartment is fairly cool and I get to go back to sleep soon. That is what will get me through the day. Or at least the next part of it. Oh, and a little bowl of ice cream.




Sunday Verse

The End of the World

by Erica Jong


Here, at the end of the world,
the flowers bleed
as if they were hearts,
the hearts ooze a darkness
like india ink,
& poets dip their pens in
& they write.

"Here, at the end of the world,"
they write,
not knowing what it means.
"Here, where the sky nurses on black milk,
where the smokestack feed the sky,
where the trees tremble in terror
& people come to resemble them. . . . "

Here, at the end of the world,
the poets are bleeding.
Writing & bleeding
are thought to be the same;
singing & bleeding
are thought to be the same.

Write us a letter!
Send us a parcel of food!
Comfort us with proverbs or candied fruit,
with talk of one God.
Distract us with theories of art
no one can prove.

Here at the end of the world
our heads are empty,
& the wind walks through them
like ghosts
through a haunted house.