Completely Unorganized

The 11th Britannica is in the stair well and there's good natural light there, so I often set on a step and read an entry or two. I sit on the second step at the bottom, to get into and out of boots, and there are several changes of clothes on a chair. Thank god I had left-overs, it was sixty degrees and I never fired the stove. Beans and rice that I nuke, a split and toasted piece of crackling bread in the toaster oven. The last few bites are taken with sorghum molasses. I start getting ready for a trip to town, tomorrow, because there's weather coming and I need to go to the laundromat, also pay land taxes and vehicle insurance. I think I'll raise shallots next year, because they've gotten so expensive, and I love them. When I go to the laundromat I always go to Big Lots, right down the road, to look for things I need: utility candles, lamp oil, cheap panty-hose. The best way to keep onions is in panty-hose, a knot tied between each. Yellow Spanish onions keep best, the sugars aren't all converted. Like in Lorca, or most of the poets I read today, where there is an edge, where language confronts reality. The freeze-thaw season is defiantly in play here. I walked over to the head of the driveway and it's a mess. A temporary condition. The wind should make it passable by tomorrow. You should always poke a hole in a mouse, before you freeze it, so it doesn't explode in the microwave.