There's a poem in my head
like too many cups of coffee.
A pea under twenty eiderdowns.
A saddness in my heart like stone.
A telephone. And always my
Night madness that outs like bats
across this Texas sky.
I'm the crazy lady they warned you about
The she of rumor talked about -
and worse, who talks.
It's not secret.
I'm here. Under a cricle of light.
The light always on, resisting a glass,
an easy cigar. The kind
who reels the twilight sky.
I'm witch woman high
on tobacco and holy water.
I'm a woman delighted with her disasters.
They give me something to do.
A profession of sorts.
Keeps me industrious
And of a servicable use.
In dreams the origami of the brain
Opens like a fist, a pomegranate,
an expensive geometry.
I haven't a clue
Why I'm rumpled tonight.
Choose your weapon.
Mine -- the telephone, my tongue.
Both black as a gun.
I have the magic of words,
the power to charm and kill at will.
To kill myself or to aim haphazardly.
And kill you.
-Sandra Cisneros, Night Madness Poem
April is Poetry Month. I know I'm a little late, but it's still April, so it counts. Not that anyone reading this blog has time to read, but if you find yourself wanting something good to read, I suggest The House on Mango Street by Sandra Cisneros. Amazing.
In other, infinitely more horrendous and miserable news, the Property outline is giving me a headache. A very large headache. Maybe gin will cure it.
And in "Check yourself before you wreck yourself" news, Beckett has taken to saying this on the regular. And he's added a sassy hip shake. As if to say, "You really better check yourself, fool." One more piece of evidence mounting that will prove that he is me in every way possible. Sorry, world.