Mamma don't let your kids...
Grow up to be undertakers.
Okay--I don't know HOW many times this is going to come up in this LJ (hey look that's the opposite of my initials!), but maybe enough that just WRITING it will turn me into a murderer.
I just heard HIGHWAY TO THE DANGER ZONE coming from the next desk over. That lady has an 80s fetish about a mile long. Hell, the 80s are her cigarettes. She's just got to have it, and that means that "I" get a double helping ALL f-in day long. Bruce Banner time!!!!!
Did I mention that I hate the 80s? That's a lie, how would I know.
Anyway, the undertaker thing----
So there's this guy. And this guy's name is "Lynch". NO, I am NOT making this up. Well, his first name is Thomas...but still!
Anyway, the guy with the name of Lynch is an undertaker--stop me if you've heard this one before. And he wrote this AWESOME BOOK!
Why aren't you reading it already? Well, maybe you just needed me to tell you the name first. That must be it.
Bodies in Motion and at Rest - by Thomas Lynch
This may be the most honest thing you ever read. Check it out! (literally--go to your library, foo)
Why is it so great? Well, it's about life and (duh!) death - and it's got poetry in it too. What more could you want out of a fuckin non-fiction???
--quoted--
A NOTE ON THE RAPTURE TO HIS TRUE LOVE
A blue bowl on the table in the dining room
fills with sunlight. From a sunlight room
I watch my neighbor's sugar maple turn
to shades of gold. It's late September. Soon...
Soon as I'm able I intend to turn
to gold myself. Somewhere I've read that soon
they'll have a formula for prime numbers
and once they do, the world's supposed to end
the way my neighbor always said it would--
in fire. I'll bet we're all given numbers
divisible by One and by themselves
and told to stand in line the way you would
for prime cuts at the butcher's. In the end,
maybe it's every man for himself.
Maybe it's someone hollering All Hands On
Deck! Abandon Ship! Women and Children First!
Anyway, I'd like to get my hands on
you. I'd like to kiss your eyelids and make love
as if it were our last time, or our first,
or else the one and only form of love
divisible by which I yet remain myself.
Mary, folks are disappearing one by one.
They turn to gold and vanish like the leaves
of sugar maples. But we can save ourselves.
We'll pick our own salvations, one by one,
from a blue bowl of sunlight untill none is left.
Okay--I don't know HOW many times this is going to come up in this LJ (hey look that's the opposite of my initials!), but maybe enough that just WRITING it will turn me into a murderer.
I just heard HIGHWAY TO THE DANGER ZONE coming from the next desk over. That lady has an 80s fetish about a mile long. Hell, the 80s are her cigarettes. She's just got to have it, and that means that "I" get a double helping ALL f-in day long. Bruce Banner time!!!!!
Did I mention that I hate the 80s? That's a lie, how would I know.
Anyway, the undertaker thing----
So there's this guy. And this guy's name is "Lynch". NO, I am NOT making this up. Well, his first name is Thomas...but still!
Anyway, the guy with the name of Lynch is an undertaker--stop me if you've heard this one before. And he wrote this AWESOME BOOK!
Why aren't you reading it already? Well, maybe you just needed me to tell you the name first. That must be it.
Bodies in Motion and at Rest - by Thomas Lynch
This may be the most honest thing you ever read. Check it out! (literally--go to your library, foo)
Why is it so great? Well, it's about life and (duh!) death - and it's got poetry in it too. What more could you want out of a fuckin non-fiction???
--quoted--
A NOTE ON THE RAPTURE TO HIS TRUE LOVE
A blue bowl on the table in the dining room
fills with sunlight. From a sunlight room
I watch my neighbor's sugar maple turn
to shades of gold. It's late September. Soon...
Soon as I'm able I intend to turn
to gold myself. Somewhere I've read that soon
they'll have a formula for prime numbers
and once they do, the world's supposed to end
the way my neighbor always said it would--
in fire. I'll bet we're all given numbers
divisible by One and by themselves
and told to stand in line the way you would
for prime cuts at the butcher's. In the end,
maybe it's every man for himself.
Maybe it's someone hollering All Hands On
Deck! Abandon Ship! Women and Children First!
Anyway, I'd like to get my hands on
you. I'd like to kiss your eyelids and make love
as if it were our last time, or our first,
or else the one and only form of love
divisible by which I yet remain myself.
Mary, folks are disappearing one by one.
They turn to gold and vanish like the leaves
of sugar maples. But we can save ourselves.
We'll pick our own salvations, one by one,
from a blue bowl of sunlight untill none is left.