Sat., 12/22

There are dreams not worth re-
counting. Where you meet people
you’d rather not, and a relation-
ship develops that threatens
to go on toward infamy.

And then you wake up and it’s
Saturday, named after a god
you’d rather not know — although
the planet is beautiful, ringed
round with ice particles and
asteroids, the last I heard.

It’s damp outside; we listen
to the shuffle and there is very
little whiplash, as if the thing
had a mind of its own, and “good
taste” (it’s playing what I like)

Recently a friend said
“so you’ve been living together
for two years now; do you miss your
freedom?”

“But I am free.” A sound like
“unh,” someone getting punched in
the belly. She knows. Yet, confusion.

Monogamy is a hard, round object,
say a stone or pebble, a baseball
I’ve been watching roll down
a long hill for years, sometimes
with curiosity, but mostly not.

Random lines from my bookshelf:

No – the dyam food int import-
ant even when a hungry; but as
a say before it is the kind & kin
da word – the thoughtful act –
the spiritual sup & sip together
– the ingather – the partake –
the share

— Kamau Brathwait, The Zea Mexican Diary 7 Sept 1926 – 7 Sept 1986

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