July 2011
38 posts
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Cumin's chief weapon is the element of surprise!
You know when you’re making French toast and you’re whisking in what you think is cinnamon but it’s actually cumin? Yeah.
Undeniable
It’s at moments like this, when sprawled atop newspapers spray painting a vegetable crate I CARRIED HOME, that I pause and accept the fact that I’m turning into my mother.
Google-plussed
Two hours later, I think I’m starting to get the hang of it.
“Man who is a serious novel would like to hear from a woman who is a poem.”
—
(classified advertisement, New York Review of Books)
Exchange of Letters, Wendy Cope
(via sketchofthepast)
The Room Of My Life by Anne Sexton →
calling-home.tumblr.com
The Room Of My Life
Here,
in the room of my life
the objects keep changing.
Ashtrays to cry into,
the suffering brother of the wood walls,
the forty-eight keys of the typewriter
each an eyeball that is never shut,
the books, each a contestant in a beauty contest,
the black chair, a dog coffin made of Naugahyde,
the sockets on the wall
waiting like a cave of bees,
the gold rug
a conversation of heels and toes,
the fireplace
a knife waiting for someone to pick it up,
the sofa, exhausted with the exertion of a whore,
the phone
two flowers taking root in its crotch,
the doors
opening and closing like sea clams,
the lights
poking at me,
lighting up both the soil and the laugh.
The windows,
the starving windows
that drive the trees like nails into my heart.
Each day I feed the world out there
although birds explode
right and left.
I feed the world in here too,
offering the desk puppy biscuits.
However, nothing is just what it seems to be.
My objects dream and wear new costumes,
compelled to, it seems, by all the words in my hands
and the sea that bangs in my throat.
