Feed a fever, starve a cold

I hate getting sick. For one, it’s debilitating and completely non-productive especially for someone who’s heavily dependent on her wits and temper to get through the day. And I really don’t care for stuffing bits of tissue up the septum to stem the free-flowing, liquid buffet of unidentified nasal fluids.

Neither do I care for how sickness turns my brains into woolly fuzz, chugging sluggishly amidst a strange white noise. What did the ancient adage say? Oh yea, feed the fever and starve the cold. Second day on a zero-subsistence diet but I’m feeling neither better or worse for wear. So there. The little naps I take when my copy’s doshed out, I warm my frozen hands with fiery heat from my temples — quite undoubtedly the ultimate expression of self-suffiency, no shit.

And since time and tide wait for no man, to ride back up the bucking bronco, I’ve no choice but to get by the day with just a cup of lukewarm coffee, generously laced wtih toffee and vodka to wake them brain cells a little, before crawling back home to crash.

Crashing’s still a long, long way to go. And the flourescent lights of the office are beginning to hurt my eyes. Owwie.

Unreachable

We raise our arms
The street climbs into the sky
We lower our eyes
The roofs go down into the earth

From every pain
We do not mention
Grows a chestnut tree
That stays mysterious behind us

From every hope
We cherish
Sprouts a star
That moves unreachable before us

Can you hear a bullet
Flying about our heads
Can you hear a bullet
Waiting to ambush our kiss

– Vasko Popa, Far Within Us #1

Wide open

somewhere knew I nowhere do
propping men to smiling should
most beautiful thing, delirious most
somewhere knew I nowhere do
conceited lips, skin beyond eyes
your face on mine on yours
catastrophe sweet, too soon, I do.

Unring the bell

The calvary has gone home.
The flowers have died.
Paper, an element of ash
have funneled away into dust.

Go home. Hide in.
The foghorns are rusty
from overuse, then neglect.
Even the bellhops have turned
their broadclothed backs
from one too many yes’s,
and left baggages untagged.

No one will ever speak
of this clarion call, booming.
Unring the bell.
Unhook the phone.
Learn to let the silence grow.