Tuesday, October 6, 2015

A Silent Plow on a Destroyed Farm

I forgot to buy catfood on Sunday, we'd finished the last bag Sunday morning. They were without food for almost 36 hours. The howling in anguish. I did not put my book down early yesterday morning to run to the 24 hour grocery to pick up a rescue bag of Purina Crap Food before work, so fuck me. When I went to PetDumb after work yesterday they were out of Science Diet Fatty-Cat Blend, I bought the next level of calories up (Adult Indoor) meaning a higher level of flavor. Threw out a handful as soon as I got it home, these motherfucking hoovers hoovered as if starving. The howling in pleasure.

Front-to-backed Ishiguro's When We Were Orphans in past 24 hours rather than sleep or buy my starving cats catfood. Howl. I'm better now. I've two extra paperbacks. You know the drill.


Joseph Ceravolo

Everything is out of me,
a sonnet, a ballad
like a silent plow
on a destroyed farm,
while poets sing dooms of element bombs
and man's slow destruction of fluid earth,
I can only focus on an ant, a bud
a look in someone's eye
while the external order of things
declines... The snows fall
by some instantaneous structure,
but God, where is your blood
so that centuries from now
our lips, our tongues might still
sing the flames of the past
and among metals
and electronics dissolving in water,
we might still be stubborn enough,
fuse with the flesh, burn with the soul
and rise in vaporous light.