Could you have meant porpoise?

Day 64: Thursday

Morning, Tim!

When you first left for Italy I had moderately regular thoughts about you over there during fashion week. I was eager to get the lowdown on what it was like, and knew you’d have some pretty good takes:

“…jean jackets with one arm torn off…”

“…frilly with all kinds of colorful feathers…”

“…art like flamingo jackets…”

“…use a pen to write something that makes your friend cry…”

I’m not sure the last one will really catch on, but I suppose I know nothing about fashion…I hope yesterday was just a taste of more to come.

And, inspired by the talk of art and communication, I thought I’d write a poem.

Others
make me
a Sandwich

Squishy
Not on Rye
No bag of chips

Paper plate
Unevenly spread
Nevertheless, calories

Why
am I
a Sandwich

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Until tomorrow,

Zak

Banal

I wish I could say it were some choice Brunello.
Something or other di Montalcino
in these rolling hills of Tuscany.
But a poet’s golden token
only goes so far,
and what’s it worth
for bowtie noodles?

I didn’t have the nose to sip it sitting in my rotten sock drawer bitter as my broken esophagus.

A finer kind of whine
might sigh more sweetly
in refined pedantic meter.
A better brand than sea-sick indigestion—
but what is in a name?
The wine-dark Atlantic
divides my fart in twain.

Dover Beach

[…]

Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.

Sophocles long ago
Heard it on the Ægean, and it brought
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
Of human misery; we
Find also in the sound a thought,
Hearing it by this distant northern sea.

[…]

From Dover Beach, by Matthew Arnold

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Sophocles pondering the metaphorical “turbid ebb and flow” of human misery

This has been a surprising Saturday something: a series of somethings that surprisingly happens on Saturdays sometimes.