2005-04-14 - 8:38 p.m.
This
is not
a poem.
In English we are learning
to experiment. Forgive
my case of the stilts.
Today I saw a bird's
remains
hanging
from barbed wire.
How
did it get
so tangled? And
why
did life
end there?
I almost wanted to
gently
take it down. Let it
rest.
But I
kept walking
glad
the hollow
feathered
lifeless mass
was not
me.
Was it.
I start work at 6 tomorrow. Tell me I like money better than sleep? Tell me I like my hands becoming coarse from the heat more than I like them melted butter soft, never-worked-hard-a-day-in-her-life, "all the better to touch you with, my dear"?
On the bright side, I think in like year 11, one of my fondest dreams was to know how to make coffee. And now I'm learning it. Thus technically achieving a dream ... wheeee! I like knowing how to do productive things.
hungry. behind. messy. blahblah. L. not much changes exactly.
"And a funeral director accused of cremating the wrong body, and covering it up, with another."
Sandra Sully