Lying on one of the lean-back lawn chairs,
feet up on one of the rigid ones, thinking
It’s Thursday, maybe I should veto thinking on Thursdays.

Sitting in the sun often makes me want to shun thinking
altogether. When I’m in the shade (ahem, and deep in thought)
I still hear the two-ton trucks rumbling on the road, but
they’re rumbling on some over there. Somewhere I am not.
When I’ve forked over the controls to the intellectual synapses –
the cognitive syndicate –  I’m with Montaigne –  or at very  least
Pascal Quignard or Roland Barthes or Albert Camus how do you do.

But when the sun is boring holes in my knees (ahem, and
amplifying my freshly rekindled horniness elsewhere) 
those trucks actually rumble right across my intestines,
and the churches chiming the hours use my bones – 
       as if I were 
           their very own    
               damn xylophone

and I’m not even stoned. Just not thinking.
So maybe I’ll give up thinking onThursdays.
Or maybe just alternate Thursdays. . .
                              or one Thursday a month. .



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