would've been up even if i had a dishwasher
Apr. 29th, 2026 08:46 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tsuki_no_barai worked from home today which meant i could sleep in and yet i could not. annoying. so i did the dishes instead of, you know, catching up on some delicious, delicious sleep. sigh. i don't think i'll ever be a morning person and i know i'm still a night owl - i mean i had to stay up last night and watch the lost boys - but man, who wouldn't rather sleep than wash dishes? right?
"The Imagination Completes Its Grand Circuit,"
sees my mother seated up in bed, unable to move
of her own accord, lips parched from medication,
she begins to sing, a chant, an Arab song,
from her childhood, eyes almost transparent.
My two aunts, or they would have been my aunts,
who died in infancy . . . from pneumonia? . . .
scarlet fever? . . . no one alive now knows.
What was, when my mother was a child, in the air
of the world’s most industrialized city? Blessings
and horrors, raw orange sunsets, that blue flame
burning is industry, the smell of incense rising
in the fabulous churches, Latin, Greek, Arabic, Aramaic
liturgies, descendants of inventors of alphabets.
After midnight humid and hot. The dead are wherever
we are. They’re not just details, these tears of bliss.
Survival’s what’s involved. Furious, the fate
that keeps watch. Everything’s something else and yet itself
at the same time. Home, you know? Everyone
and everything is related. Wet steel-blue morning, thin,
purple salvias near the backyard fence. Your Grandpa’s
dead, I, the baby, must have heard it said.
--Lawrence Joseph
"The Imagination Completes Its Grand Circuit,"
sees my mother seated up in bed, unable to move
of her own accord, lips parched from medication,
she begins to sing, a chant, an Arab song,
from her childhood, eyes almost transparent.
My two aunts, or they would have been my aunts,
who died in infancy . . . from pneumonia? . . .
scarlet fever? . . . no one alive now knows.
What was, when my mother was a child, in the air
of the world’s most industrialized city? Blessings
and horrors, raw orange sunsets, that blue flame
burning is industry, the smell of incense rising
in the fabulous churches, Latin, Greek, Arabic, Aramaic
liturgies, descendants of inventors of alphabets.
After midnight humid and hot. The dead are wherever
we are. They’re not just details, these tears of bliss.
Survival’s what’s involved. Furious, the fate
that keeps watch. Everything’s something else and yet itself
at the same time. Home, you know? Everyone
and everything is related. Wet steel-blue morning, thin,
purple salvias near the backyard fence. Your Grandpa’s
dead, I, the baby, must have heard it said.
--Lawrence Joseph
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