I wish I was special

I wish I was special

Okay, I know it’s become blog vogue recently to quote Matty Fontaine, but christ. Here I sit, whimpering about the unfocused vortex that has taken over my brain, while there are people in this world whose personal hurricane is obviously of such velocity as to necessitate the choice between focus and explosion. This particular one is a rare example of something that I didn’t read, but rather felt. Damn.

Saturday, May 19

A Request

More rain, please!
Mornings, icy-bright, don.t stir
my batter anymore. I miss
the thought that I.m at sea; please,
more damp clouds to pad
this dry brain that jostles its case.
On Sunday afternoon I miss
the pitter pat, the drizzle drips
that tap a letter, long unread,
to mush on the moist sidewalk; also,
I always like to hear barbecues,
forgotten for the season, half
adrift on sumpy lawns, tink like muted
bells. I.ll listen as I sleep
through breakfast, under six afghans
(a lumpy involucrum sealed
against ridiculous entreats
like .Up and at .em!., or .Rise and shine!.;
commands, which, shrill or kind, are baffled
equally). My eyes are too awake
to shut at afternoon, they see
too much. Please, dim the lamp, let down
the soft sky.s touch that we
may rest a day. Or a year. Thanks.

9:34 AM