Sunday, March 1, 2015

March 1: Spring Break, God's Love Number Twelve, Classic Saint Marty, New Cartoon

Greetings, disciples.

Sunday night.  The end of the weekend.  Another week of work ahead of me.  It's also Spring Break at the university, so there's a little less stress in my life for the next seven days.  I'm looking forward to a little relaxation.  I may even read a book for pleasure.

That's God's love number twelve.  Relaxation.  Time to think, pray, read, write.   I will miss being in the classroom.  It's one of the greatest thrills when I can see young minds opening in front of me.  But, I will also enjoy recharging my batteries.  Center myself.  You may find this hard to believe, but I can sometimes get a little wrapped up in my head.

Today's episode of Classic Saint Marty first aired two years ago, right before the papal conclave that elected Pope Francis.

March 1, 2013:  A Poem, Sharon Olds, "41, Alone, No Gerbil"

Tonight, I'm giving you a poem from my favorite poet, Sharon Olds.  I was going to post her poem, "The Pope's Penis," in honor of the upcoming papal conclave.  My wife told me not to.  Instead, I give you another of my favorites from Olds.

Saint Marty wishes you a happy P.O.E.T.S. Day.

41, Alone, No Gerbil

In the strange quiet, I realize
there's no one else in the house. No bucktooth
mouth pulls at a stainless-steel teat, no
hairy mammal runs on a treadmill--
Charlie is dead, the last of our children's half-children.
When our daughter found him lying in the shavings, trans-
mogrified backwards from a living body
into a bolt of rodent bread
she turned her back on early motherhood
and went on single, with nothing. Crackers,
Fluffy, Pretzel, Biscuit, Charlie,
buried on the old farm we bought
where she could know nature. Well, now she knows it
and it sucks. Creatures she loved, mobile and
needy, have gone down stiff and indifferent,
she will not adopt again thought she cannot
have children yet, her body is like
a blueprint for a woman's body,
so now everything stops, for a while,
now I must wait many years
to hear in this house again the faint
powerful call of a young animal.


The pope, and all his body parts, leaves

Confessions of Saint Marty



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