Monday, January 07, 2008

Sleeping With Joyce's Dog

(Jan 07/08)

I haven’t eaten spaghetti for some time now, though the thought has entered my mind, more than once if I recall. I boiled some Red River Cereal the other day but forgot to cut my toast into tiny fingers. (My dear grandma tutored me in toast fingering, that and applying a mustard poultice to a razor-wire cut). I bought some cereal bars at the grocer’s: charmingly chewy bars chocked-full of oats, barely, suet, rice and a variety of desiccated fruit, some of which I couldn’t identify, not even on Wikipedia. I like the word whore, especially when suffixed with the word corpse. I like the word dogsbody, too, even though Joyce used it no less than four times. I like sleeping, even when I’m too tired to entertain the thought, of sleeping, that is. I have used the term Diaspora, though incorrectly and with little regard for proper grammar and syntax. I built three more snow-tunnels after the snow-tunnel incident, none of which lasted past spring thaw. And I wrote a short story, a novella, almost, whose principal character was named Thaw.

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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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