Archive for November 2024
Combing my hair last year, I found spiders,
A dalmatian, and eighty three rollers.
The die had been cast, the domino fell!
The dryer malfunctioned, dry went the well.
The Fiddler at the Inn was evicted,
He became a Hermit, bought a Brick Bed,
And used hairspray as his deodorant.
His luck began to improve when he found
A Ladybug. She moved in, paid him rent.
My luck changed too, because of a horseshoe.
I found it on the Internet—they sent
It to my Home, where I live with a crew
Of spiders, a dalmatian, but no phone.
The Heat is Gas, and love is all around.
Pynchon’s Service was started by Egan
And some vindictive icemongers from Rome.
Inherent Vice had a table— Dhalgren
Sat there (for him, Lot Forty-nine was Home).
Gravity’s Rainbow was invisible,
Arching over Lot Fifty-four, crying
“What has become of my friend Samuel?”
Mason and Dison sent regards, bleeding.
Salmon Rushdie went to that school with Greg,
Where Donald Barthelme had the helm, busy
As Humpty Dumpty, fragile as an egg.
Wintersun, Wodehouse, and R Delany…
In Pynchon’s Service, nineteen seventy—
Like Algonquin, with more obscenity.
These days (as in the days following the 2016 presidential election of the Narcissist in Chief), I find myself thinking about Winston, from Orwell’s novel 1984. In the end “he had won the victory over himself he loved big brother”. I wonder, as Winston must have, Is it best to give in and be as one of the mass of desperate men and women of have surrendered to quiet desperation?
But I am not there yet. Maybe the rats will do it.
To be continued….
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