Sitting at my table, writing, reading Anne Sexton, copying down interesting lines as they pass:
Is life something you play?
And all the time wanting to get rid of it?from LIVE
My nerves are turned on. […]
You did this.
Pure genius at work. Darling, the composer has stepped
into fire.from THE KISS
I burn the way money burns.from THE BREAST
Now what?
Reading is fundamental to thinking,
correct? Is thinking not a
dialogue with other thought?
Most words ramble past me like
ripples on a creek, but
here or there a word sticks,
a thought fills the foundation
a little more deeply,
distantly informing a
choice of words
at a now-unforeseen moment.
I am no fount of
educated quotes or
murderously comic zingers.
Rare if ever would those
Anne Sexton lines
fill my conversation,
punctuate or finalize.
Words and thoughts
pour in to my mind
like bricks and cement,
trapped and torpid.
