The Morning Corporation does not judge others for the impotence of their actions. In fact, it actively supports causes that align with its overarching ethos: that one is to have the least possible impact on the lives of those nearby.
When entering a body of water, The Morning Corporation recommends doing so with ones arms firmly at one’s side, feet pointed, and chin tucked-in, so as to make as imperceptible a splash as one can.
In the hinterlands of New Mexico, a group of two philosophers (ménage à twill?) discovered, perched on a rock, a large spherical polyhedron made of broom-handles joined with large balls of aluminum foil. Police believe it was most likely created by a local artist, or a visiting alien civilization.
Taped to it was the following poem. At least, I can imagine that.
'Stupid Sauce' the proof was there the night we drank directly from the bottle with the label on it that read 'Stupid Sauce' - might have known. It was fire we spoke of when we asked "Is it hot enough?" and somewhere deep within, the answer: I am warm, but let me see if a little warmer might, perhaps, be absolutely so, after all, if we don't try, we don't know, now, do we? who can tell? how near we are, how far one's satisfaction stretches. Notable, it is, how often we increase the heat, burn more fuel, burn ourselves and those around us, or else wonder should we? and how often - to compare - we lower it, instead, with a prayer to science! Let us pause... [tick. tock.] "O! remind us of the cold from which we came, the measure of our tolerance, defining, in the bones of our structure and the stones of our hearth, our contentment, first, that, once, we knew, and twice forgot, until the house grew wicked hot just like that stupid sauce." - A.R.
After Lauren delivered her poems this week, I asked her if she was well, to which she replied: “Sure.” I couldn’t resist poking a little fun at her pronunciation of the word, which proved to be a mistake, as she immediately countered with a clownish, broadly imitative echo of my words. At once, oh, this was war. Without hesitation, I made mock, unflatteringly, of the way she said the word ‘cat’. Indeed, I put such great effort into it, forcing my face into such a position, that I tore a muscle in my jaw.
Try it at home!
'Conspiracy Unraveled' A nose for bull. An eye for wool. Conspiracy is knowing What one doesn't know. Truth is dust, and nothing just. Conspiracy's the faith we have In that we cannot trust. You won't believe this, but I do. Conspiracy's a state in which No-one is united. It's me they're trying to pull apart. Conspiracy's a body of which One is not a part. Something so inviting... Conspiracy's the party to which One is not invited. - L.G. 'Après Le Déluge' For every Temporary pool Left in the field After the flood Recedes, there is a bird Whose wings disturb the surface Temporary Peace, and conflict. - L.G.
Though Adam and I met only briefly, this week, we somehow managed to exchange reminiscences of childhood. He told me the story of his bar-mitzvah and resulting fire, and I recalled the time Spen got a wiggy new ball with ‘NFL’ on it. He kept fuzzing it over the fence! It was chronic! Then his neighbor saw it and I bombed it but Spen got absolutely done, the dicksplat!
'Deptford' Steam that rises from the damp wood In the cold air, by the sweep Of warm hands of the morning As conductor of a piece, high and Delicate, and low, soft, and calming, And innumerable bells, tiny, everywhere, Great lake of beaded glass, run The fingers, oh! the sound - breathe in, With eyes together - as if from A long, long way away. Shed door Surprises; step us in, you turn. Embrace: the human part of this, Our garden in suburbia. - A.W. 'Samuel Beckett Answers Your Questions' Go before me! when the snow Lies upon the roads, The fields, tops of poles, Playing possum. There, two rabbits stood. The first abruptly vomited. The second said: "Does anyone know why there's always carrots in it?" This resolves the mystery Of our existence; why I could fall off a wall, and You could've fooled me; why Nobody does English like the Irish. That is why Samuel Beckett wrote in French. - A.W.
Is fruit rude? That’s what we’d all like to know. What we do know is what a carrot looks like, and that two strawberries placed close together are undeniably suggestive.
In conversational terms, however, while we are encouraged to communicate with those of the leafy persuasion, I have never been anything other than disillusioned. Indeed, I have talked to fruit for years, but have never gotten a word back. A look, certainly. The occasional nod from a banana. That’s it.
Matt said nothing to me as he handed me these poems, attached to the outside of a bag of russet potatoes, equally aloof.
'In An Empty Room' Before the open window is A bottle on the shelf. I stand before the mirror and I do not see myself. Where am I gone? and when There's no time for reflection, ah, This is what becomes a man: Ha. Not death. Similar, though. - M.B. 'Audience Of You' Swinging like a gibbon on the ragged edge Of nothing, curtains. All The exploding cigars are damp and duds. This is the show without A climax. Down below, where the big bugs, Those fat ladybugs, go Hushed, and looking right, left, and right For husbands, and for food. Gorilla Picks, white-fingered, through the Haystack for the needle. There are Magnets in the speakers - all I'm saying - But there's nothing like An addict in withdrawal to make A miracle from junk, while The lights go up-and-down, like snores, Across the wrist, and moonlit palm, Along the middle finger, past the groove Into space as far as Strings are made of mercury and stars Are made of nickel: as The song toward the sun, so this track Goes on forever. Way out Past the call, beyond response, The human engine, ear. - M.B.
Some people find it uncommonly thrilling to make love in a thunderstorm. Some enjoy making love in a canoe strapped to the roof of a car traveling at seventy miles-per-hour on a four-lane highway. Lovers of literary cliché like it in a trice, so as to sooner get back to devouring books.
Some are excited by the idea of frying food while naked. This is called ‘pansexual’.
So far, there is no record of anyone liking to make love with each of the feet placed on a chalk-marked ‘x’ – one on the ceiling, one on the floor. That one’s all yours.
Have at it, Stretch,
J.R.
@saymoco
WEAR A MASK. NOT A METAPHORICAL ONE. A REAL ONE. OVER YOUR MOUTH.
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