52/155: Nox Turn
Jul. 6th, 2025 08:54 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rejectomorphI'd like a second beer to wash down the second French bread pizza I just ate, but that would surely be a bad idea. Yet delicious and refreshing. That's the way it often is with bad ideas. The moment's delight must be paid for later. I'd surely need to wake and piss more often. The alcohol would likely make me feel the unpleasant heat more intensely. I won't be able to open windows and turn on the fan until almost midnight tonight. In the meantime I sweat, encased in extra heat generated by heating those pizzas. Also a bad idea, but they had to be gotten rid of. I'm going to need the room in the freezer, and it's just going to keep getting hotter and hotter, so saving them for later was an even worse idea. Sometimes things work out that way. None of this is my fault, I tell myself, though I could have eaten those pizzas sometime ago when it was still cool, so it sort of is. But I ought not to beat myself up, because if I start feeling bad about being an old dolt I'll go get that extra beer anyway, which is what I might be maneuvering myself toward right now, so I should just quit while not too far behind. Or too fat behind, which is what I just wrote and had to change. Shut up, dude, just do this:
Sunday Verse
by Tony Hoagland
Sometimes I wish I were still out
on the back porch, drinking jet fuel
with the boys, getting louder and louder
as the empty cans drop out of our paws
like booster rockets falling back to Earth
and we soar up into the summer stars.
Summer. The big sky river rushes overhead,
bearing asteroids and mist, blind fish
and old space suits with skeletons inside.
On Earth, men celebrate their hairiness,
and it is good, a way of letting life
out of the box, uncapping the bottle
to let the effervescence gush
through the narrow, usually constricted neck.
And now the crickets plug in their appliances
in unison, and then the fireflies flash
dots and dashes in the grass, like punctuation
for the labyrinthine, untrue tales of sex
someone is telling in the dark, though
no one really hears. We gaze into the night
as if remembering the bright unbroken planet
we once came from,
to which we will never
be permitted to return.
We are amazed how hurt we are.
We would give anything for what we have.
Sunday Verse
Jet
by Tony Hoagland
Sometimes I wish I were still out
on the back porch, drinking jet fuel
with the boys, getting louder and louder
as the empty cans drop out of our paws
like booster rockets falling back to Earth
and we soar up into the summer stars.
Summer. The big sky river rushes overhead,
bearing asteroids and mist, blind fish
and old space suits with skeletons inside.
On Earth, men celebrate their hairiness,
and it is good, a way of letting life
out of the box, uncapping the bottle
to let the effervescence gush
through the narrow, usually constricted neck.
And now the crickets plug in their appliances
in unison, and then the fireflies flash
dots and dashes in the grass, like punctuation
for the labyrinthine, untrue tales of sex
someone is telling in the dark, though
no one really hears. We gaze into the night
as if remembering the bright unbroken planet
we once came from,
to which we will never
be permitted to return.
We are amazed how hurt we are.
We would give anything for what we have.
