God made dirt

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.

Advertisements

The Tempest

The wind picks up

eddies of dead leaves

revolve

like a dog chasing its tail

a static change in the air

pressure pockets the world

is different

now

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

hours away

bringing the old world and old molecules

pressing salvation through a sieve

of cloud

little needle shapes emerge

stitching together

a thin sheet

to wash overĀ our sins.

Analog Time

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.”

Time in no time

Time flies like horseflies, in skips and scatters

like breathing

only when you stop and consider

your diaphragm rising and falling

in long meditative reflection

do you recognize its passing

the loss

of something

ungraspable

collapsible

like the 4th dimension in Interstellar

because when you are stuck

on back to back

to back

conference calls

where people say things and use words and explain concepts that you thought

you understood

hours before

but the onslaught of words keep

stampeding your brain

then there is no such thing as time

just a black

hole

impossible to escape (unless you’re Matthew McConaughey in Interstellar).