Rambling: Rambling. And foot poetry.

And again, I slack off on the posting. But this time, it's worse than, "Oh. Right. I have a blog. How's it doing?" This time, I wrote posts, and then I didn't post them.

That is bad. It encourages that nonexistent writer's block to try to assert its existence. So, see, I have to challenge it by posting.

Except I can't find those posts.

And my brain is empty.

Well, it's not entirely empty. It's thinking thoughts like, "My feet hurt," and "Would it be wrong to open that bag of chips?" and "I wish I had some lemon for iced tea," and "Do I have anything to read?" But those aren't really the sort of thoughts that inspire successful prose.

Now that I've typed the word "prose" I find myself wondering if those thoughts would inspire successful poetry. Haiku?

Feet defy stomach.
To fetch chips to the sofa
I would have to stand.

No. That's really not working either.

The bathtub beckons.
Is the bubble jug handy?
Hot water soothes feet.

Meh.

Chips, murder, and steam.
A book and a crinkly bag
in the bathtub. Wrong?

Hmmm.

Image: Wikimedia Commons.