At the round earth's imagin'd corners

At the round earths imagin'd corners, blow
Your trumpets, Angells, and arise, arise
From death, you numberlesse infinities
Of soules, and to your scattered bodies goe,
All whom the flood did, and fire shall o'erthrow,
All whom warre, dearth, age, agues, tyrannies,
Despaire, law, chance, hath slaine, and you whose eyes,
Shall behold God, and never tast deaths woe.
But let them sleepe, Lord, and mee mourne a space,
For, if above all these, my sinnes abound,
'Tis late to aske abundance of thy grace,
When wee are there; here on this lowly ground,
Teach mee how to repent; for that's as good
As if thou’hadst seal'd my pardon, with thy blood.

-- John Donne

Thursday, May 13, 2010

12: Quiet Interlude

June 15, 1985

Hey, Bro. B.R.O. Whoa. Whoa is all I have to say. Wowie. Those 'ludes you sent are fucking great. I wish everybody I ever said anything mean to would come in here and sit in my lap. And some Kool-Aid.

The whole town is in an interlude. Nothing to report. Oh, the fire house on Diluvian is burning down. That's right, the fire station is on fire.  Fuck a duck.  They're yakking about it on the radio. Most of the guys got out, but all the equipment is in there and they can't get to it to put the fire out.

Oopa-doopa -- there go some sirens. Guess they called the Idolatry Hill firehouse. I love how clearly I'm thinking.

Hey, remember that creamery job? Now they want to add a concealed egress tunnel that can handle a semi. Woulda been nice to mention that before we laid all 1500 feet of wall foundation. On the other hand: ka-ching!

Whoa some more. Man, Jerry, you weren't kidding. Okay, I'm calling Cheryl.

How 'bout you, Dude -- any sign of a girlfriend? Let me fix you up sometime, willya?

Okay, off to the fax machine. Later, Schmuck! -- Mick
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