Is my youth gone?
Were those my glory days, and these my other days? Were those REALLY my glory days?
I live in terror of finding out how many triangles there are.
Why is my stomach making those weird sensations? What have I done to deserve this?
Do I need to order coffee for the shop today? What if I forget?
I get paid today. What if it's not enough?
IS IT EVER ENOUGH?
What if I do dare to eat a peach? One time, I ate an apple and contracted an allergy. It closed my throat. I went to the allergy doctor, and they tested me for a lot of things, besides apples. They said I could go either way with peaches: happiness or death.
Maybe I woke up too early today.
Maybe not.
I think today could go either way.
Today isn't a poetic day. Today is a clunky and endearing today. Today fell off the shelf on top of my head, and I thought Oh, what a dust jacket.
In some ways it's nice to have lost my youth. I have an excuse to sit around and stare at the cat. I have an excuse to ensure my consumption of breakfast.
Lonely, lonely, my life is boney.
I have an excuse to say no to that next drink. Except I normally don't. That's not a function of age. That's a function of sourness.
Turn down the loud! I'm souring in here. And clutching my aged limbs to myself. If I wrap them tightly enough, they'll mummify and quit aging.
I should probably go out to Ann Arbor today.
I'd much rather just stay here on the couch. This couch used to belong to my Grandma. She grew old, too.
Growing old guarantees at least one thing: death. But it can go both ways. It can never go either way.
Death is as mysterious as peaches.
Hello Death, you sly peach!
Was hast du jetzt gemacht?
I might be yet tired.
Why do my words always hump the left margin?
They're clinging to the left margin with their scraggly finger nails crying out OH GOD DON'T DROP ME.
It's 9:22 and the bells rang 5 times.
That makes less sense. But in making less sense, the bells make sense. Whenever they establish a pattern, I get scared that my queries have been in vain, and I've just been observing a completely normal pattern of nature that some other scientists figured out long ago and I was simply too lazy to read the report.
"Ding-Dong, Bing Bong: An Exploration Into the Bells of Ypsilanti which Ring on the :22's"
Yes. That will be my report. I will be famous. Makin' so much moonnneeeeyyyy.
Dolla dolla bill ya'll.
Pat, fat, sat, rat, mat, gnat, hat, bat, cat, eat.
I think I'll go back to bed for a wee sleepsies. My anxieties weren't as bad as I thought they were going to be. Except for the one where I thought I'd lost my youth. Oooeeee...that was bad.
Friday, January 30, 2009
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4 comments:
Oh Ypsilanti list-poetry, where were you?
I remember when you dared eat that apple. That day makes me feel like the evil fairy-tale queen who feeds people poisoned apples. What a bitch.
In your defense, the day you gave me an apple wasn't the day my throat closed. Though, I did react poorly to the apple you gave me. So if it's worth it to you, I still hold you in the highest regard as a huge bitch.
I liked the aging, mummified limbs bit. And the souring.
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