1) Due to a heavy work schedule, the Management of Solberg Lepidopteral Services, Ltd has
regrettably been forced to adopt the following policy change:
Butterflies not emerging from their chrysalis by 7:00 AM local time (Jerusalem Daylight Time/ GMT+3 will ‘NOT‘ receive fruit-cup.
You will be released to the wide world between 11AM and 4 PM as our schedule permits, and no excuses will be accepted. Thank you for your understanding/ Johnny the Big Nurse
2) Meteor, schmeteor! I don’t wanna hear it; ‘Wow, what an impressive shower!” By me it was a drip, to be charitable. Five toothpicks-in-the eyeballs-hours up on the roof, under perfect ‘seeing’ conditions, and I counted seven(7) Sears’ ‘Good’® meteors. With the time I’m losing today, Friday, because I feel dead tired, they cost me approx 100 shekels apiece, not including sales-tax (15%) Never again. ‘Fall, mountains, just don’t fall on me’ (J. Hendrix)
3) At least I wrote a couple ditties while waiting for goddamn Godot.
Took a bath on the meteor shower…/ We
Paid in advance for the show/ She
Saw six or seven an hour../ then said:
“Pleiades, Honey, let’s go.”
I’m touched by the busts of Pam-and-her-son
They both are a charm in the night
A toss-up which one is more wondersome
I think it’s the one on the right
At which point I began to lash out at innocent classical musician/bystanders:
I’m choppin’ the head off-of Chopin
It’s ‘De-capitation or bust‘
Impossible Polanaise showman?
Meet ‘Hatchet in C sharp, ‘non sust’
My fingers will never recover
There’s parts, gotta play with your nose(!)
Say ‘bye’ to your mother-slash-lover
I’ll remember to mail her a rose
4) Thence to Tomato Death:
You can clearly see that I have red ones and green ones, on the same plant, What, they individually get a signal from outer space? The disease is a virus, Verticilium, my best guess. Invisible to the nekkid-eye (I looked last night sans-external raiment). The virus itself is unwittingly spread by a hard-to-see white-fly. It mutates every year, in reaction to Man’s efforts to kill it. Ha, another million years and it’ll be walking on all four and have a Xanga
site, complete with embarrassing grammar. Devolution. Every living being survives, seemingly, on
the death of some other competing also-ran. I have no idea whether my betrothed tomatoes chose ‘Death B-4 Dishonour’. Believe me, I’d intended to lovingly plant their seeds. But that’s water over the Solanis Dam. Next month I’ll invest in ‘resistant’ seeds, barring that I myself should succumb to a virus, god forbid *spits*
5) These cats are now grown-ups. I’ve done my job. The hours they increasingly spend breaking everything I own could be spent outside catching mice. I’ll see to that before sun-down.
Wait: Mice with viruses? Oops, ok, another week here in Heaven I’ll grant you-uns guys, but that’s the limit. I only have one un-broken coffee-cup left.
A pleasant weekend… (and notice I didn’t mention ‘Positive’ even once, not in so many words.)
Wu: Nobody say anything about your poems. Sad.
Me: “Forgive them, for they know not what they be not doin'”
Wu: Wow. Christ-like. How many cheeks you got left, btw?
Me: No, seriously, Scarlet Moth’s delicious phrase ‘Praise without Merit’ has never been more apt. The scourge historically of the fully-fledged intellectual: to see someone get 157 (sic) ‘Your Awesome’s. For a jumble of meaningless un-rhymed and un-rhythmed swill. I’ve seen poorly-bagged stool-specimens at old-folks homes that were more attractive. What ya gonna do?
Wu: ‘Things are different today/ I hear every mother say/ Don’t you realize, it’s hard to write a poem?’
Me: I do work hard to create little feats. And without any mother’s little helpers. Oh well.
Wu: So give up on Xanga. Go to Poets-dot-com?
Me: Nah. The virus is in everybody’s eggs. I’ll stick with ‘our’ son-of-a-bitch for now.
Wu: Wow, Jesus, Mick Jagger, Everett Dirksen, Fire-sign Theatre, did I miss anybody?