Tuesday reflections

Bluejays are beak-stuffing slobs, with dainty and sleek feathers, superficial cover for gluttony...

Bradleys are procrastinators, with hip-hairdos and polished noggin netherworlds, who whittle away hours twiddling internet ding dongs and doodling narcissism...

Squirrels are depraved backyard denizens, violators of all seven deadly sins, rapacious and cunning delinquents, munchers, camouflaged monsters, objects of detestation...

"Hello morning!" is betoken by 7am wake up, followed tenaciously, alarms like calls to prayer...

My hope is for luminous mornings, indefatigable days, reading evenings, and - o gosh, finally - stable habits, and reliable relationships...

Libby (canis lupis familiaris) is as omnivorous as a goat - she scarfs a morning walnut ritualistically; grapes are delicacies; chicken bones can be procured through trashcan larceny; and the evening meal is human fare - certainly a princess among beasts...

What is one to make of Pynchon, the 'postmodern' luminary? G's Rainbow is a ponderous epic, singular and difficult. Is there some concealed genius - an ironclad kernel - is he just a clever scribomaniac?
The Mars Volta would seem to follow logically, part of the frantic dialectic which cherishes beautiful discord...

Syracuse, NY, most magical at nocturnal hours/ urban air after gloaming/ from illuminated city to atmospheric gloom/ and in between, ladders of light like celestial towers...

Scribblings 1

Rain cuts the heat of the dog days of summer.
But far from serrate or slice,
the stuff drips fruitlessly into drought,
like ineffectual radiation on a redoubtable tumor.
Bitches lick skyward while pups suckle dry nips,
pigs rut in the cached earth, hardly moistened, dreaming of lascivious mud,
The dog star, imperious, from his empyrean perch, radiates pure malice.

Cutting the cheese,
is an inevitable albeit malodorous function of eating and breathing,
but not on Maslow's chart.

To cut cocaine, crack, heroine, and the like,
with speed, baby laxative, glucose, baking powder, and such,
is to dilute poison with poison,
to spur even more druggie death and decay,
to dangerously distort the high.
But who is to say how or how fast a person is to die?

"Cut it out!" implores the belabored brother,
ugly harassment in his sister's ember-eyes,'
The oafish elder',
docile and sloppy in unlaced Sketchers,
is no match for her wiles and meanness,
her smart pigtails.
She grabs and twists his tender tit-toppers while he screeches,
as sharp as a knife.

Metaphors

I am in the process of reading (and enjoying) Saul Bellow's Adventures of Augie March. The language of this prose-master excites me. Check out some of these metaphors, similies, and other language usage innovations from the maestro.

... he listened, trying to remain comfortable but gradually becoming like a man determined not to let a grasshopper escape from his hand (Bellow, p. 4, NY: Penguin).

I tried to explain something of this to your brother, but his thoughts are about as steady as the way a drunkard pees (p. 55).

Poor nails, he didn't look good...An immense face like raked garden soil in need of water...he turned death nosed, white as a polyp, even in his deepest wrinkles. (p. 95-96)

...as soon as he inherited the fortune it darted and wriggled away like a collection of little gold animals that had obeyed only the old man's voice (p. 116).

The spirit I found him in was the Chanticleer spirit, by which I refer to male piercingness, sharpness, knotted hard muscle and blood in the comb, jerky, flaunty, haughty and bright, with luxurious slither of feathers (p. 168).