"They call them stupid. They understand what we say better than we understand them. She understands all she wants to. Vindictive too. Cruel. Her nature. Curious mice never squeal. Seem to like it. Wonder what I look like to her."
- Ulysses, James Joyce
Today’s Ezraku:
In the Hush of the Morning Kitchen
A mysterious meow, like a human ooh:
Molly’s mating call, not for you, not for you…
P.S.
Click for a boots-on-the-ground 2024 Bloomsday Ezraku.
In the Beginning of the Evergreen End
First the fall came for the summer, I did not speak out, for I was evergreen. Then they came for the pumpkins, and I did not speak out, because I was not a pumpkin. Then they came for the turkeys, and I did not speak out, because I was not a turkey. Then they came for me, and I could not flee, I was a goddamn tree. Whose urges spur these back-to-back, back-to-school purges? Who seeks to jackknife orange gourds, goring them in their own image, then wreak swords on flightless fowl while they peek at lines of scrimmage? Silently, I shriek at the tight cords that cut into me surging with voltage, blighting the moonlight with blinking bright lights electrifying my plight. Why do you carve everything in sight? Because you starve? Or take delight in unstoring your might? Or are you so bored you soar overboard making everything your smorgasbord. Are there some retro rites that afford you this right to smite? Or is your sicko spite its own dark reward? History’s arc is bending, terror’s trending, our story’s wending toward this evergreen end. So this I’ve penned, a distressed friend request. Forget speaking out, we’re at the dead-end. This is good-bye. All I wish for is a simple reply. Please don’t forget to hit send.
“Am I like that? See ourselves as others see us.”
– Ulysses, James Joyce
Today’s Hemingway Half-Dozen Prose Poem:
Bloom’s Mind:
Too Kind.
And Purblind.