here, madness knocks on the door and you, with swollen knuckles, answer. poetry flocks like so many seashore gulls, tearing at a plastic baggy still full with yesterdays pb&j. who could have told you, at such a young age, that you were the cause of all your THIS? nature. addictions. god. life. a stream of tiny doings - where, perhaps, recounting a dream - the elevator door opens to a crowd waiting to get in - and your standing there - in sheer terror - at having forgotten to put on your pants.
desperate housewife. career woman. mother. bordering insanity with a strong constitution. incorrigible optimist. day dreamer. LOCAL 9 is Ben Salk
i pretend i am someone who might actually go to sleep once the little ones are down. i pretend at it like an art. eyelids are here to remind me of weight and dawn and that deliberating on delirium is about as smart as a box of hair. my pillow mocks me from across the room. i visit the bathroom as if every time will be the last.
posted by fingerpoet @ 8:39 PM
1 Comments:
cool. she blogs! And its not even midnite yet!
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