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