Poem for Wednesday

There are Days
By John Montague

There are days when
one should be able
to pluck off one's head
like a dented or worn
helmet, straight from
the nape and collarbone
(those crackling branches!)

and place it firmly down
in the bed of a flowing stream.
Clear, clean, chill currents
coursing and spuming through
the sour and stale compartments
of the brain, dimmed eardrums,
bleared eyesockets, filmed tongue.

And then set it back again
on the base of the shoulders:
well tamped down, of course,
the laved skin and mouth,
the marble of the eyes
rinsed and ready
for love; for prophecy?


It's snowing. They're saying three inches by nightfall. So the roads will be a mess again and the kids will probably miss even more school, but it is so damn beautiful.

Am about to turn down a job reviewing the two C.S.I. shows for $50 a week. Could use the money but I've never seen a single episode of either show and can't help thinking that there must be better, more worthy ways to earn $50 a week. I believe I am Officially Burned Out on entertainment reporting. I seem to have come full circle; after shoving fandom aside for the chance to make money watching television, I'm back to believing that fandom is the only thing that makes watching television worthwhile.

I'm probably fucked in the head, but what the hell.