8

So you want us to love each other

You can make me out of ashes

The trash of my belly laughs

Out of what's left of my boredom

You can doll-face

You can grab me by the hair of my short memory

Hug my night in its empty shirt

Kiss and kiss my echo

And you don't even know how to love

   - Vasko Popa as translated by Charles Simic

Vasko Popa is much better at being angry than I am.  I'm a little embarrassed, actually.  But I'm fine.  I'm going to read more and I'm going to try to write about things that are a little more interesting than my latest jiltings.  Why can't jiltings be a word, blogger, why?  Also I really want to mow the lawn, but somehow I can't make myself.  I want a sense of order, but I still haven't finished unpacking.  Also order and I have never really gotten along, but jumping over boxes and turning things upside down looking for a shoe is only fun for so long.  It is still a bit strange being here.  Possibly I should try to write poems.  I don't want to write fiction right now, because I know where my head is and even I am no longer interested in exploring that cave.  And I can't meditate because I just fall asleep.  The life of the party, I am.  Well, anyway...