‘i know.’

one of my favorite things (and there are many, so i’m kind of cheapening my own excitement) about language is the inverted ability for a minimum of words to have a great meaning.

that greatness of meaning can be in superlative, but it can also be in scope – a broad spectrum for a sentence so narrow.

‘i know.’

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the paper bag

let’s just go ahead and get this out there:

plastic grocery bags are a lie. all they do is provide handles to whatever singular object i purchased at the grocery and allow said object to hang limply, shapeless, without identity or an iota of self-respect.

plastic ‘bags’ are an insult to our very being.  this cannot be said enough.

so, as a responsible  member of humanity, when in the process of unloading carefully selected groceries onto a moving conveyor belt, i politely ask,

‘may i please have paper bags?’
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i am no mercury

when the wind falls behind me

and i hear her staggered breath

i remember pheidippides

and his cries of victory

upon bursting into athens

and the wind

she shrieks with fury, for

she cannot catch me.

                  i am no mercury

                  i do not run for jupiter or any lower case

                  god on a mountain

i run because I am faster than the wind,


I will carry no one’s message

                  but my own.

‘i’m a little hungry.’

i have recently decided the two below sentences/phrases are becoming favorites of mine:

-‘i’m a little _______.’

-‘it isn’t awful.’

i swoon in their presence for at least two reasons:

1)  i’m a sucker for intentional understatement.

2)  i’m a bigger sucker for intentional understatement that also purposefully leaves open a rather large window of interpretation.

3)  i swoon easily.
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(later than it should be) friday youtube free-for-all

so the problem with claiming to start a trend is that expectations are planted, little seeds of responsibility,

and then next friday rolls around, i look up from an emotionally drunken haze between acc tournament sessions, and i realize i’ve let down all eight (8) of my loyal readers and/or my mom by not following through with a second friday youtube free-for-all.

this is why it’s near-deadly to label anything a ‘first annual,’ because juuuuuust enough people might be dying for the second annual pineapple cork-board finger-painting festival to throw a fit when it doesn’t happen in year two.

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the evolution of a poem

i wrote this poem last spring.

* * *

‘her hands over his’

Death stood,

cloak billowing in the wind.

she leaned casually on her scythe, her hands folded over themselves,

and watched.

* * *

the window stood open,

soft white curtains billowing in the wind.

the wife helped her husband pull on his shoes, her hands over his, to keep them steady,

and she kissed his cheek.

* * *

Death smiled.

she rose to her full height

and left alone. Continue reading