The Edgar Allen Poe Blog

It was a tempestuous inky night in autumn. Quietude befouled the air like the vengeful spirit of my mother, only occasionally interrupted by the vengeful cry of a long-suffering, vengeful bird. Due to an unfortunate bout of melancholy humor, I found myself thirsty, decaffeinated, and wondering whether Harriet Miers was the proper choice to serve on the Supreme Court for the rest of my lifetime -- which would hopefully be short.

The leaves whirled in a funnel around my near-starved frame as I passed alone through a landscape of unremitting bleakness, the ground wet with unearthly slime. At length I came upon a coffee house and bid myself seek comfort inside. Taking in the menu, I pondered what gave them the right to bestow fresh nomenclature on "tea," a sacred word for a leaf used by soothsayers to predict the horrible fates that would befall wicked souls? And why -- I paused to think -- did they insist on playing "house mixes" of Latin-jazz standards that had ceased to be relevant when my stupid parents were alive?

I recognized the barrista as a boon one-night stand from my earlier youth. She had been a lustrous creature, a cheerful companion who parted her lips freely with no thought to her own pleasure, with great flaming tattoos licking up either side of her neck, hellfire seeking earthly form. I broke up with her after a couple of weeks because she was kind of a bitch.

Perhaps, she, too, found my habits unnerving. I understand that it might be difficult to companion a man who nightly sought fresh cat entrails with which he could tell the future. But how could I explain to her that I truly reviled the shitty Bloc Party MP3s that she insisted on sending me?

Regardless, my recent disease had disfigured my face beyond recognition, so she served me without comment. I sat then, and lifted my eyes to Baudelaire, wondering when my own early end would come: how I longed for the sweet taste of mossy death in my rotted mouth!

I'm glad Tom DeLay got indicted. What an asshole.