Mummy Dearest

I haven’t had time to write as much as I’d like lately. I’ve been working on my memoir piece, reading Gregory Orr’s The Blessing, and reviewing four other memoir pieces all for my nonfiction class.  Then I have a project for my electronic publications course that involves a wide-eyed stare at a Mac in the XML lab at my college (I still need to start on this), zombie-like and mindless. But despite feeling weighed down by work, school, all of it, I think it’s extremely important to take a break for yourself, before you try to write or read or stare. Some people sleep, relax. I went to a concert.

They’re called Here Come the Mummies.

The Flu.

I’m not going to review this band. I’m biased. I’ll just say that I love them, very much—they’re like ska funk, undead, groovy.

I sort of just wanted an excuse to write mummy poetry.

And really, who doesn’t love a mummy?

An on-the-spot poem about, well, I already told you…

I like you
because you’re not
a monster
who hides
like a wimp
under beds,
instead of on top
wrapped up
in ancient rags
and sheets with cotton
as Egyptian
as you.

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