Mental
Weekend
Celebration
Friday begins rebirth. About noon: sensational
foreshadowings of the foam crackle from a cold pint—
by five it’s time to decide where to find one. Late afternoon:
charm in the breeze, in patterns and implications of words, in
sensate mode. Sometime later: incorrigible fun. Delicious
gluttony, spendthrifting, the exercise of immortality rights;
humor in the fops and the fuddies of the night, the dramatic
malingering of words: a cataster, a disastrophe! The smell
of spark, the taste of fire. The sigh and the nudge that are work
falling quietly comatose.
Continuation
Saturday awake to make love, lie pleasantly in the aftermath;
outside to the balcony for breakfast and a sweet sunbath of light
and some all natural Vitamin D, plucking bronze strings with
acoustic on knee, the smell of wood and forthcoming rain.
At night: some tracing thoughts of the rigmarole soon to come
easily sedated by cold drinks and a walk down the block.
Perhaps some work done. Perhaps just the exhaustion of
immortality rights and even more incorrigible fun.
Contemplation
Sunday riddled with guilt for Friday and Saturday,
and work, and the utter lack of something to say. The day-long
process of recuperation and the sigh and nudge
shifting into scream and punch. Long naps, and then
something greasy to eat. Weak play, much work.
Staring at a cursor; cursing at your stare. Thinking that it should
always be Friday, that I should quit my job, that I don’t care
about money—only paper: it folds, it burns, it tears.
Copyright © 2002 J. Lena Evans
