Sunday, March 2, 2008

Catching a cold.

I have that creaky feeling I always get when I have been invaded by a foreign body bent on doing something malicious to my person.

Either that, or I don't feel like memorizing 20 new kanji for my Japanese test on Wednesday.

Or maybe I over did it at the gym yesterday. I went up 10lbs in every category and I ache in every joint like a sinner in the hands of an angry God. I guess that's what I get for skipping church.

Anyway, here is an old poem that seems to fit with my dissipated mood. I hate Sundays.

Pipe Dreams

It seldom takes more than a toke, just a whiff,
To start my tongue reeling off stories of you;
On our naughtier nights we might split a spliff,
Surrounded by haloes of smokiest hue.

God only knows how I lost my huge honey!
Through railroad investments, a cyclone, a ring?
Ten carats of coal I once hocked for money
To pay for potatoes? I replaced it with string.

The calamity came from Switzerland—Berne—
A skiing instructor, I forget on which Alp.
His mittens said Matt, and I said I can turn
A blind eye to that. Hard liquor and whores, they help.

But now only cads will attend my cotillions!
Now, only cockroaches and creditors call!
Mostly cockroaches—I seem to have billions—
All poking forks in my nerves through the wall.

So, I sit in a corner, just nibbling my knuckle.
The party is over, and my place is a sty,
And I think of five fingers once torn from my buckle.
“Darling, don’t hurt me,” you said. “Don’t cry.”

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