Manic Monday
(and don’t panic)

God sang
The song into creation

The lion did as much
And our holy words
In works
Imply

We are created

We are that song
Or its interpretation
In darkness
And in light
And the bestowal
Of a garden

With the first object lesson
For the teachers
That the garden
Stands
For something we
No longer have
While we must work
In labor
And in labor
For
What we got

Each era is a lesson
We could say
And maybe they progress
The human ages
Which is why
We say
They’re ages

(we get older)

We grow
Some

We adapt
Physically
Some
Though not as much
As one might think
For as long as we’ve
Been here

And this might not be
So much by us
As by
The touch of God

God knowing
We’ll need adaptive parts
As we go on
(grow on)

What do I know
It’s Monday
And I’m feeling existential

With the blues on electric pages
Making less sense
To me
(than could it be
our music style)
Than paper
With its white
And off-white
Receiving of
Our pen strokes
Painting
With black ink

C L Couch


[note to me and now to us
so what’s this poem about?—it’s about thinking and writing, yes, really about both]


     I am having trouble with the blue lights on computers.  Or the part of the lights that are blue.  Or maybe feeling blue.  I think it’s both.
     The result is that I’m even more recalcitrant in using this thing.  This vital thing.  I’ve had to use it for a while then rest my eyes.  Rest my eyes upon the rest of the world.
So if I’m worse about responding than is typical (and typically it can be pretty bad), then I’m sorry.  But as the emperor said quite uselessly, there it is.
--Christopher


Photo by Marija Zaric on Unsplash

Nous existons.  Vraiment.