Turning a lot of pages,
I rotate on an
absolute nothing existence,
which might be better than
absolute nothingness (?).
Only joking (?), or all kidding aside (?),
I drink my soup, a tall glass
of cold water. The glass is rather
inexpensive (but great for the heart!) be-
cause it was formerly an expensive
Pom™ juice container. Somebody
I initially thought was very sweet had
made me the chicken noodle soup because
he’d noticed that I’d been coughing incessantly.
Ah, springtime in the winter! Anyway,
a warm mug of tea is now very sweet.
It sits on the green marble table that used to be
my working desk (pretty at which to look, but
lousy at which to work) that sits in the living room
that is mine (and mine alone). Atop the table
are strewn a bunch of books and magazines: e.g.,
Rob’s Rumored Place, Norma’s Moira, Mirage #3/
Period(ical) no. 133, Judith Butler’s Precarious Lives,
and this year’s September issue of Vanity Fair.
