I've been listening online to Winesburg, Ohio, by Sherwood Anderson. About an assortment of odd characters.
Am snuggled up here on red couch, under a warm bedspread and drinking hot Dunkin coffee to dispel the horrid taste of awful vitamins and supplements I gulp down every single morning.
Never knew what Sherwood looked like. He had a mental breakdown and died at 64.
Me too!
Am better now, thank you.
How beautiful it is outside.
Scott went out to cash a check.
He's back.
He did an imitation of the teller asking where to put his money.
THE LOVELY SNOW
The white sky asks, Are you ready?
No matter what we're doing
she sends down her noble flakes.
You may be doing a Times crossword,
yes, some folks are that smart
or finishing your bacon and eggs
as if you're at table with
Ozzie and Harriet
Or reading about why Pope Benedict
quit his lifetime appointment.
What's that unmistakable sound?
The mailman, tromping up my steps
and depositing the worst rot of
mail you can possibly expect.
The snow is made of tiny dots like
a pointillist painter. Oh, hell, says I
and lick my fingers, wishing I still
lived with Mommy and Daddy somewhere
anywhere.
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