rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,


Some days are just hard to conjure up once they're over. If I try hard enough I can summon bits and pieces, a few stray images, but for the most part today just went away. I remember that it happened, but now that it has it amounts to nothing. A few items from the stores are all the physical evidence that it ever was, and I feel this vague dissatisfaction from the fact that I don't want to eat any of what I bought even though I'm getting hungry.

I'll eventually eat something, of course, because eating is my excuse for drinking the bottle of beer that is the thing I really want. That's one of the few things I bought, and that part of the day I do remember, even down the the sound of the refrigerator door opening and the smell of the cold air that spilled from it, and the feel of the cardboard handle of the carton in my hand. I wish I had bought something to eat that would be as memorable.

Sunday Verse


by Anne Sexton

Be careful of words,
even the miraculous ones.
For the miraculous we do our best,
sometimes they swarm like insects
and leave not a sting but a kiss.
They can be as good as fingers.
They can be as trusty as the rock
you stick your bottom on.
But they can be both daisies and bruises.
Yet I am in love with words.
They are doves falling out of the ceiling.
They are six holy oranges sitting in my lap.
They are the trees, the legs of summer,
and the sun, its passionate face.
Yet often they fail me.
I have so much I want to say,
so many stories, images, proverbs, etc.
But the words aren't good enough,
the wrong ones kiss me.
Sometimes I fly like an eagle
but with the wings of a wren.
But I try to take care
and be gentle to them.
Words and eggs must be handled with care.
Once broken they are impossible
things to repair.


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