Itinerantdaughter's Blog

This poem in The New Yorker made me think of dark, delicious things:

Rituals

Washing your hands, trying the lock,

burning a hundred head of cattle

not to eat, washing your hands

again, trying the lock again,

talking forever to yourself,

saying the sorts of things the god

least can understand, who finally

figures this must be for me.

— Jeff Dolven

On a related note, there are 4 ads in this week’s TNY for fancy psych hospitals.  Glad to see they’re keeping the percentage up.

This entry was posted on April 3, 2012 at 3:43 am and is filed under Conspiracy Theories, Not a Poet. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.