Friday, November 04, 2005

Because It Pours Color in Its Path . . .

Thanks for the comments on my Blog readability . . . I probably am going to change the format soon, just need to find a format I like enough to change it to . . .

Last night, Mr. Random and I went to “Brat Night” at That Custard Place. The owners of the custard shop are from Wisconsin, and once a month they pay homage to all things Wisconsin by serving bratwurst sandwiches, German potato salad and sauerkraut, along with a Wisconsin brand of bottled root beers, orange sodas and cream sodas. The place was packed, and they had an accordion player playing polka music all evening . . . or rather, what sounded like polka music because all the accordion music seemed the same to me. We went with a friend of ours who was born and raised in Milwaukee, and a good time was had by all . . . and the bratwurst was really delicious – we may do this again next month.

Of course since we were out, we missed watching Trump’s Apprentice this week, although we caught the last bit where Markus was nattering on and on in the cab. I read the quick recap in Television Without Pity today, and it sounds like this week's episode was as good as last week's so I’ll have to watch the rerun this weekend. I’m sure all those people fired last week breathed a sigh of relief when they saw that Markus was finally fired . . . he so lucked out by being on winning teams all of the time . . .

I haven’t written any more on my NaNoWriMo project this week. [Hangs head in shame] But I will work on it this weekend, promise!

Today’s poem is by Rebecca Aronson. I hope you all have a wonderful autumn weekend!

The Question of Fire

Because it pours color in its path.
Because all things in it come down to the bones of bones, some particles

more fundamental that dirt.
Because its roar reminds us of nothing.
Imagine a basket of flame: always emptying, always full.
Because it was begun from one word (tree) held too close
to another (lightning).
Because of the embers, those handfuls of history, and the potential of matches—
a future that any careless carrying might ignite.
Because there is no net, no cure, no promise.
Because we have been captured.

Rapture: the first curl of smoke quickening into blue and how it grows up
the way a kiss surprises (only lips on lips yet
the body suffused with tickling)
so that suddenly it’s a real engine-red.

The fingers of grass along the alley know it
but lean in anyway and are consumed.
Because it calls to be fed and feeding will never surfeit.
Because to live is to hunger and nothing is more alien
and more familiar than the hunger of another.

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