sUNDERdAY(s)

Spindle Elm

the rector’s bench
slatted with spindle elm and ash
the low susurrus of the calliope
forcing chancel air through trued pipes
stale bread and unction wine
draught from the parson’s saintly tun
grain skin and trued blood

The Settlement

the settlement is pending
they should have stopped me
from running in traffic
without my straightjacket on

Doing the Done

I can’t help feeling that I should be doing something else, something other than this. Shucking corn or peeling a blood orange with the spurs of my teeth; or simply doing something else, something other than this, which is nothing, nothing at all but this. Whatever I’m doing, what I do, is other than what I should be doing, what I could be doing but don’t. I don’t do things that I should do, things that should be attended to and done, those other things that are always left undone. What I have done is done nothing; simply thought of those things that should be done but are left undone. In this manner I do very little, get very little done. True, I put great effort of thought into doing things that should be done, but in the end do nothing but think about not doing the done. What needs to be done, or what I think needs to be done but is simply a thought of done, never gets done, never gets past the thinking of doing what needs to be done. As you might well imagine, this is quite troublesome, even the thought of the troublesomeness of the trouble is troubling, the being troubled about trouble. Perhaps what needs to be done is a redefinition of the word done, or to be done, the doing of done or the done of doing. In this manner, the doing will become the done and the done the doing of the done, or vice versa. Either way, nothing of much import will get done, nothing whatsoever. I am done with this, done with the doing of what is never done yet is done by simply thinking that I have done what I will never do.