Oh my good lord am I in a mood this morning.
I do not do not do not like killing things.
I've had the poison food out for a couple of days now and the mouse seems to be eating it. But he's still around (or they're still around? I dreamt there were dozens of them).
Last night I came home and found him in my bathtub looking so ridiculously cute and lovely. I tried to catch him and put him outside but he ran away.
Then I hysterically cried for awhile.
Oh, also, I was drunk.
My phone should be taken away from me when I'm drinking. Actually, I should just not be allowed to drink. I'm stupid.
I'm going to invent cellphone software where you can program your phone to disable access to certain numbers after a certain hour of the night.
It's like how back before cellphones some of my girlfriends had each other's numbers written on their mirrors at home, so that they'd remember to call the girls instead.
Okay time for brunch. That should cheer me up? Hopefully?
I just want to weep instead.
I know that I posted this poem once before somewhere else, but I still love it so so much. And I feel like it's appropriate for today (you should read it three times over at least, I think):
Monarchs, roses
They are matchbooks, lit matchbooks that fly.
I drive fast and east
to the radioed melody of a woman
and sunlight and my hand
kiting out the window
in a blue car beside a stream
travelling west and south
to the Gulf of Mexico to join
the water that is the sky over Atlantis.
I am an arrow of happiness and I like
root beer and walking from Brooklyn
to the Met and standing
inside the first sigh of grass
in the morning but when my joy
strikes a pair of wings the color
of hydrogen
exploding and the monarch
falls in the rear view like a shirt
shot from its hanger, I want
a tiny piece of chalk
so I can trace the body
for the detective who will slap me
and say, we know you did it, Rocky.
That I'm not Rocky
won't stop justice from smoking
its cigarette in my face
and I slow down too much
for the people piling up
behind me on their way to some other
massacre but I like
cows and the cello and being a killer
as seldom as possible. When I stop
and dismantle the car, you are welcome
to the tires and the horn but leave
the radio, this woman
sings like her voice is a rose bush,
is thorns and complex blooms
and it forgives us
just by letting us know it exists.
-Bob Hicok
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