I just wrote someone that fighting the weeds i’ve ignored all summer now, in mid-august, is like fighting a sand monster, being unequipped with any superhero skills. they morph and move at will and i just have a little sweeper upper, no spell to chant.
sometimes my language of metaphor and simile is just thrilling. i’m taking a once-weekly poetry challenge with a friend (Alix Klingenberg) just for the month, but its been a wonderful hour for my brain, a loosening of the weft and warp of my brain, and I find myself slack-jawed at the ways in which language can be thrown down.
poetry is an elegant use of humanity.
in the face of countless calls to health insurance companies, car troubles, worries about money, automation, depersonalization, there are roses, there are flower petals dropping to the ground while no one watches. the fans oscillate. the artwork falls cockeyed in the frame. there is a chill to the air today, reminding me that i’ve survived another summer. jazz plays while i am on hold and i enjoy it. lots of horn.
there are piles of paper fluttering in the fan’s effort. its as if i have brought the ruffles of a thousand feather in with me. these bills, these jobs to be done, referenced, researched. and still my feet brush against the faux velvet of my pink sofa and i preen as i look around, the work of a thousand times a thousand minutes all proving how damn lucky i am. full cups and all that.
lovelove you, do.