Ramblomatic

should be a good one. Hoping to stop by the pub session and catch some of the action. By "catch" I really mean "take in."

For my birthday, I was given a book of prose poems, The Floating Bridge, by David Shumate. I don't know how he'd feel about my posting this on here, so David, if you're reading this, sorry! I just really like it and wanted to share it with everyone else.

Zero
In his old age the mathematician has become obsessed with the number zero. He says it tastes faintly of lemon and if you're silent you can hear it hum. He holds a magnifying glass up to one and shows me the soft hairs along its edges like on the back of a caterpillar. He's drawn to its emptiness. He claims that among numbers it is considered the peasant. Most live in caves beyond the edge of town. They marry only among their kind. They are nocturnal so you never see them out and about. Only the spherical bundles they leave behind. And the long rows of nothingness in between. Sometimes the old mathematician draws a zero on a sheet of paper and contemplates it for hours. It soothes him. But he is always cautious. It's so vast in there, a god could get lost.