Wednesday, August 11, 2010


On the second day he fell into stupor. On the third day thoughts began to resurface, undersized miniscule thoughts, but thoughts nonetheless. On the fourth and fifth days he started thinking mawkish petty thoughts. On the sixth day he had a complete thought that sent him reeling with fear: ‘for we shan't always find castles where they'll entertain us; now and then we may light upon roadside inns where they'll cudgel us…’ (Don Quisciotte, Cervantes di Miguel). When he awoke on the eighth day, which he did begrudgingly having spent the previous day recuperating from the fifth and sixth days, he noticed a peculiar taste at the back of his throat. This he found noteworthy as never to his knowledge had he noticed it, or if he had he hadn’t noticed that he had, and furthermore one taste’s tastes not notice them, so the argument was moot anyhow. On the ninth day the stupor returned, the previous day’s recuperation falling short of the mark. And on the tenth day his thoughts returned to normal, or so he thought.

He recalled the soup kitchen behind the parking lot; a queue of hungry men stamping their feet trying to stay warm. A man wearing a hairpiece pushing his way up to the front, the queued hissing like steam valves. ‘cretino bocó’ groused a man at the rear of the queue, the back of his coat covered with the throw-up of the man behind him. ‘soltar pum!’ His sou'wester aureoling his head he walked down the line looking for butting-inner’s and loudmouths.

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"Poetry is the short-circuiting of meaning between words, the impetuous regeneration of primordial myth". Bruno Schulz

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