Hands and Feet

a Saturday morning poem

Hello dearly decaying and not yet departing, I fear my hands (and now feet) are in an all out protest and I have a finite amount of words to type to you as we settle into our poem for the week. It’s a short one given the circumstances and it’s on topic! Blindingly so! In any case, enjoy and have a restful week’s end.

I am also working on an exciting addition to these newsletters. A new layer to add to the mist.

We always begin with text,

until we can’t. (←pin that).

I am having a harder time reading this week, but I did pick up Vol 1 of Sakamoto Days by Yuto Suzuki. I had been hovering on the Netflix adaptation for a while now, but I think I’d prefer to experience the manga. It is a delight and surprisingly aware of itself. In other great finds, I snagged a copy of Her Frankenstein by Kawashima Norikazu. The lore on the latter is enough to make you run out and buy your own copy, more on that later.

M. I. Kast

Wenceslaus Hollar; Hands and arms; 1644-52

Hands and Feet by M. I. Kast

Why do the smallest parts of me, the fragile bone and missing cartilage between the muscles pulling loads like freight trains never meant to be driven by their digits alone, hold the most of me in electrical sockets not up to code?