
Waking Wakefulness
I awoke with a whooping crack in the anterior posterior lobe of my skullcap. Like most mornings, all, in fact, all that I care to remember to forget, whooping and geeing and remonstrating are de rigor, mortis de Pieta. I was thinking sum thoughts, not algebraic or calculus, but the sum of all thoughts, the simulacrum of thoughts thought and the thinking of those thought thoughts. Thinking, I’ve come to think, is a waste of time, hooliganism, a punch in the solaria nexus. Who, I perhaps, gives a rat’s ass what I think or not, thoughts and thoughtlessness, all a vapid exercise in trough supping. Saltlicks and honey-sticks, saxhorn yellow yellows and nicotine sullied finger nubs, all or nothing, as is the case or not. Callowness and jackdaw wings ripping rectums of air, mourning air, not frigid and apoplectic as some seem wont to suggest. A schizoid response to a prophylactic world disorder; milling needs and fractures with a scullery whore’s eye for neat edges and folded over cover slips, cowslips, mordant cup swill and Sherry’s crocked in elm barrels stopped with bunghole corkier. I best attend to the day, or what remains of the day a day.