Don't Write Anything Above It
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Don't Write Anything Above It
I read once
that in the centuries before
home refrigerators were invented
it was apparently routine
to throw a frog
in milk,
in the milk jug,
so it would not sour.
Or sour as fast.
Because of some secretion
on its skin,
how they managed to figure that out, I wonder.
A live frog
into the milk.
I imagine it
sitting,
staring into the distance,
green,
not understanding,
reflecting on its stupid life,
in the white darkness,
or not even that much.
Just thinking
He should call someone, thinking
not his father though, thinking
he should take out the recycling bin, thinking
I should be sleeping, thinking,
why can’t I fall asleep again, thinking,
what is this noise in my head, thinking, what am I, thinking,
why am I so misunderstood, thinking, I have to pee again,
thinking, most of the world is suffering,
and I don’t even have a driver’s license, thinking,
whenever I want to talk about something, I start with myself, thinking
what a dumb habit that is too, thinking,
my phone fell into a bowl of soup, thinking, I fell asleep for a second,
thinking, look at this landscape, thinking,
everyone is annoying, thinking,
myself included, thinking,
all I know is I’m here, thinking,
I don’t know anything else about myself, thinking,
at most, the last song is really where I start hitting my stride on the dance floor, thinking,
an alarm is about to go off, thinking,
again, thinking,
in my dreams, chickadees peck at my brain
and forget which way is up, thinking,
this is how apathetic hell laughs at itself, thinking,
that wasn’t an aphorism,
put down your pens, thinking,
come on let me sleep, thinking,
I’m not even here, just my thoughts, thinking,
the frog
in the milk.
Maybe the whole thing isn’t even true,
I don’t know where I read it,
or whether it’s for certain.
Or whether this is even a poem,
and
what do I know about frogs anyway.
---
Translated by Timea Sipos