Sunday, March 1, 2009
Fat weather tricks a man into getting out of bed when he’s thick around the middle brain, suggests a beautiful island where exists only exhaustion as streaked and wooly as his beard. Scan of the horizon suggests nothing more than rivers, mountains, clouds. Strike that: The chimney of an abandoned ice factory rises from trees in the middle distance issuing ghosts he takes for smoke. It doesn’t matter how far you go when you’re Irish there’s always another passport waiting across the sea, not to mention the ring and a lovely to wear it. Up you get then, man. Put the feed in your bag and spread light to all the chickens crowding round the slaughterhouse. “My kingdom is God’s kingdom, so why does it smell like garbage so?” Let’s be particular: Garlic and coffee grounds, cat litter, black avocado. My kingdom is a wet seed, you said. Wet seeds stink.