What the hell was I thinking?

Sometimes I read things I have written and wonder, "What the hell was I thinking?" I can't even begin to analyize something I wrote almost five years ago. It wasn't written on my birthday. It wasn't written on Cyndi's birthday, or either of the kid's birthdays. July 19, 2004 does not stick out as a memorable day. I do know it was Anthony Edwards birthday on this date. It's also the birthday of Charles Mayo, Edgar Degas, George McGovern, "Little Jimmy" Norton, and I am sure many other people.

But, seriously, what the hell was I thinking?


Happy Birthday
by Cory Fosco

Say the words aloud.
Say them to yourself.
Mix them up or say them backwards. Translate them to Danish
or Italian or Hindu. Read them from left to right
or standing on your head. Say them with a lisp
or with a blindfold wrapped tightly around your head.
Bark like a dog.
I’ve heard others say these words:
Frosty the Snowman. Sammy Davis, Jr.
My mother, my father.
My wife.
The mailman.
The butcher. The baker. The candlestick maker.
My brother, his daughter.
The two little blond girls
draped in white dresses
that stare at me in black and white
smiling
sitting next to an oak tree.
A man who only speaks in tongues.
The lesbian who only speaks lesbian.
The Maytag washing machine guy. Dave.
The words make us feel
special
giddy
old
legal
depressed.
Alone,
they are just words.