To the Satellite

I woke up this morning in the mood to listen to "Sunday Morning" by The Velvet Underground. I used to get that song in my head every Sunday morning but this happened to be the one when Lou Reed died.

Reed's music and lyrics hit your perceptions from a weird angle, a great thing for art to do. He brought grace to the strange but normal. Listening to his work can help you remember it's lazy to see anything as normal.

I've been up since 6:30 this morning--I only got four hours sleep. I've spent most of the day getting stuff out of my room, after having done that for most of the week. I still have a lot to do--at the end of the day I'll have to take out my computer so if I make an entry to-morrow it's likely to be late.

Here are some pictures I've taken lately of trees with tentacles and eyes.

Twitter Sonnet #561

Collarbones bolster the grey cloud cockscomb.
Receding mud revealed granite molars.
Vinyl scratches draw rain on the box home.
Lightning cackles at the cosmic bowlers.
Copper canopies are lies through amber.
Golden skies dim for a green candle flame.
Gnarls on the naked oak form a number.
Sycamores are bending to spell a name.
Decayed mucus clots the open grave's bed.
Sensual xenomorphs curl on the tree.
Boundless barrows let loose the drifting dead.
Eyes at the bottom of the glass can see.
Venus illuminates a black garter.
Mannequin shades take shadows like water.