|Dumb Thing to Do
||[Jan. 14th, 2018|11:59 pm]
Oh, dear. I overextended myself today and fell asleep watching television before getting anything done this evening. I was watching a mystery, too, and woke up just in time to find out who the murderer was, but not to find out how they were found out. I was pissed at myself, but not as pissed as I'd have been had they had it been an English murderer. As it was an American murderer, my annoyance was diminished since American murders tend to be sloppy and stupid anyway. |
But now it's terribly late and I haven't had my dinner, and I'll probably be awake most of the night, and my sleep schedule might still be deranged Tuesday when I have an appointment with the chiropractor. I hate getting my head yanked about when I haven't had enough sleep. So I'm going to go eat something now. Maybe some canned tamales will cheer me up.
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.