Picking up where I left off

in Proust

half a year ago,

feels like taking up my old life again

Each day's awakening

on the planet

is relentless,

thrown into my face,

obviously having to be dealt with

My body,

with all its uncleanliness,

is not part of my guilt,

but but a means, given

- and towering

on that heap of filth,

I find the weather report

at 5:57 AM

Bodies are afterglows of something,

as morning steps up its vicinity,

duly obeyed

by the working majority

A few small birds move about

up on the tin plated roof,

their claws scraping, beaks picking

just above my bed,

leaving this misty morning with a coded language

that'd need an Alan Turing to break,

but which, nonetheless,

in its cuneiform character,

transforms the collected soundscape of dawn

into the alien beauty of John Cage, Morton Feldman

& Giacinto Scelsi,

with a venomous streak of lettrism & Kurt Schwitters,

having senior citizens like me

change their ink cartridges

and postpone breakfast some more

while The Kingdom of Sweden

still keeps the military passive in the barracks

because of some anachronistic paragraph

in the constitution

The Minister of Justice,

puffed-out, fat, double-chinned and unhealthy,

stands like a sick bulldog on a town square,

hissing, asthmatic,

trying to convince the public

of the value of official reports,

but ”someday we'll look back on this,

and it will all seem funny”

I spring out of bed

like a surprise,

thud downstairs

and bring a mug of hot, black coffee back up

just in time

to hear the detailed radio report

on the latest gang murder

of a random citizen

A housefly spirals up behind the balcony window curtain;

a meditative, hypnotizing twirl of noble disengagement

- and now a woodpecker has deemed the house bangable

I pull the cover up, stretch & yawn