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.
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?’
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 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.
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.
such a foolish thing it is
is on the table.
i wrote this poem last spring.
* * *
‘her hands over his’
cloak billowing in the wind.
she leaned casually on her scythe, her hands folded over themselves,
* * *
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.
* * *
she rose to her full height
and left alone. Continue reading