Wednesday, September 27, 2017


at the National Anthem, Jordin Sparks gets up to sing. she has Scripture written on her thumb. as she warbles her dulcet notes fade into disappearance. Jordin Sparks vanishes into thin air.


i knew it! what trash! tv is garbage these days. was it ever golden? it's all just conpiracy theories which are so well-crafted they become conspiracy theories of their own. this country has hemorrhaged its heart. and i couldn't care one wit. let it burn as i continue my insular learning in a cave. all i need are my cats and my books. that was instilled in me by the Men From the West.

all i need are my books and my cats it's true. i love my cats. they are two purple cats. lynxes which yawn and carry on and turn up for me to receive their bellies. perfect purring creatures. mysterious. silent. if they spoke it would ruin it. two furmale females. who often raise their left leg to lick it. let you love the way an illegal god intended i say. have at it, pussies!

the house is quiet at night. at least there's still that. thank the stars. the fence is all gone. it looks eerie at night. wide dark countryside with no protection. it's not much but it's my home. not Victorian or anything. but a crowstepped gable for bad luck. and the ledges are dangerous but noir sash weights holding up the windows. perfect reading weather.

i might lose this home. in which case it would turn into a house. that's why i have to work. i hate work. but i have to feed my cats. catfood ain't free just cos they're cats. my home is built on a floodplain. cos my thoughts are a flood. it's all uninsurable. but it's more than a loan for me, it's a lifetime guarantee. this is where i do my thinking. if i don't get that reverse mortgage i may have to dip into boring bulging law texts. universe forbid. not all reading was created equal. i wonder what i'd miss more, the gable or the hammock in the attic. i'm not tired but i have to go to sleep now, have to get up early tomorrow morning. that's another trick: go to bed early so you don't have to eat more. i'm still drinking five times a day. i have class bright and early at 7. i hate people. goodnight.

i dunno. i suppose i'll survive. but it's an adjustment. i just went for that old box of Irish oatmeal hiding itself at the back of the cupboard. there are some oats in the bag but it's not enough for a proper full batch. half-meals. that's cruel. i'm hungry.


Jules said...

Tell me what food you have and I will concoct a recipe for you. *)

the late phoenix said...

just edges of burnt toast, mah dahlin. suddenly this character morphed into something else, that was very interesting literarily. love ya *)