Saturday night
it is all about generating ideas for what I can write here and just how long I can keep my eyes open. the day passes quietly, and the town, being a dead one, does not protest the continuous onslaught that is mediocre living. the town sheriff bags groceries. my father writes back in return an absurd one sentence blurb about how I should worry about bad people who want to kill me because I’m not of Islamic faith, and moves on to discuss the local weather.
how’s the weather where you are? so I go and visit my mom and grandmom — celebrating my grandmom’s 92nd birthday. the three of us probably have the most interesting conversation of all time, about our ghost sightings, psychic knowing and predictions, the mind’s ability to store and retrieve, and so on.
briefly I mention the sun’s symbolism in society since ancient times. political powers knew to make their advancements according to the sun’s positioning; the public is easier to control in certain astrological time shifts than others. to this day we see sun symbols in architectural structures encircling water fountains and so on. these are not whimsically placed for aesthetic appeal.
. . .
Sunday
the day starts out with both cats bouncing off the walls. they must miss Casey. and when she’s here and I’m gone, they’re doing the same for me. Rudra does what I call “vandalizing.” I’ve never seen a cat do this before — he’ll get up on a shelf, push something off it, and then look over to see your reaction. once he knocked off a whole stack of books, one by one. Bam! Bam! Bam! this is when you know he wants to go outside. he was born in the right family.
. . .
Monday
true, our press person sucks. but damn! after I left on Friday, they fired her ass. they were like, “you don’t want to work full time, so we got a full time guy now. if you want you can come in on occasion to work some odd jobs.” she threw a job jacket at him and walked out. can you blame her? this is some typical DC craziness. I have to wonder if they’re ever going to treat me this way. it makes me feel a little uneasy. my boss better cough up the dough, that’s all I have to say.
stomach rumbling
poems about
dull rooms
the preacher
with a brain tumor
losing his
mind
preaching to
cows in the street
did you see
that one?
Yorick is about
to find out
he is not
the last man
on Earth after all
a TV show
on the flat page
better than almost
anything else on
or will these astronauts
keel over once
they breathe in
a few seconds
of the virus air?
why on TV do they
only show women
singing and dancing
in the streets —
I mean, it’s true many
women are upset
all the men up and died on ’em —
are they trying
to make Yorick angry?
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