I’m from the north. Years ago during lunchtime, a colleague (he was from the south) dropped some food on the floor. He picked it back up. He held it to his mouth, preparing to eat it. I asked if he was going to eat it. He said, “God made dirt, it won’t hurt,” and ate it.
I laughed hard. Excessively so. I laughed like this guy I used to work with at Blockbuster Video. He laughed really hard. The dumbest, lamest jokes had him doubled over, splitting a gut. If he laughed at your joke you earned nothing. You had no idea if you were being funny. And when he inevitably laughed at someone else’s pathetic offering, you hated him.
I laughed like that. First, it was the rhyme. I appreciate a good rhyme. Second, it was the simplicity of it all. Third, I’d never heard that expression before, and I laughed at how sheltered I apparently was in my northeastern enclave.
That colleague also said stuff like, “He was on her like a duck on a June bug.”
We never said such fun things in my home, growing up.
Last night I went to brush my teeth. There was an inch-long hair poking out from the bristles. It wasn’t mine. It was too short to be my wife’s. There’s something inherently disgusting about any thing being attached to your toothbrush. It’s holy ground. The hair was too straight to be a pube. It was probably the cat’s hair.
I pulled it out, flicked it away and brushed my teeth.
God made dirt.
What is that, a leaf? It looks like a leaf. Or a cockroach’s severed wing. My brain thinks those are its best options.
I lean over and pick it up with trepidation. It’s a stupid severed leaf.
The wind picks up
eddies of dead leaves
like a dog chasing its tail
a static change in the air
pressure pockets the world
entering a new dimension
a hollow world stamped down on top of the existing one
traced over in black ink
a storm’s being summoned
and set about
flung into the future
bringing the old world and old molecules
pressing salvation through a sieve
little needle shapes emerge
a thin sheet
to wash over our sins.
Our family sat down at the Thanksgiving table to celebrate and give thanks to our good fortune over splendid Chervil-spiced Gerbil.
I read an article today that said that kids these days don’t know why we use the terms clockwise or counter-clockwise. Or what they mean. I think we’re expecting too much from kids. As long as they know where my next beer is, I’m good.
Random 4-year old reading this: “That gives me an idea for an app.”
I’m very proficient at curling up with a good book, dominating an ottoman or claiming a chaise attachment to an L-shaped couch.
I’m also a gold medalist in web surfing, both freestyle and millennial.
Do we really need the word propinquity when proximity will do?
Actually, I prefer propinquity. Proximity is lame.
Time flies like horseflies, in skips and scatters
only when you stop and consider
your diaphragm rising and falling
in long meditative reflection
do you recognize its passing
like the 4th dimension in Interstellar
because when you are stuck
on back to back
where people say things and use words and explain concepts that you thought
but the onslaught of words keep
stampeding your brain
then there is no such thing as time
just a black
impossible to escape (unless you’re Matthew McConaughey in Interstellar).