Language is an undulating plane, verbs shoving mountains upward like so many middle fingers. The adverbs sink like aging glaciers, the clear blue crack of their shattering as they melt under the brutal beams of a neon sun is a sort of music that graces the land. The notes blur and bend with the breeze over jungles of nouns. They tumble over each other, producing their own thunderstorms and ambitions. Pronouns are lush and thick like rivers meandering like women at the yacht club where a dumb boy and a dumber me ran among the fireworks. I is fluffy, is chartreuse chenille and hot pink fleece. I tells stories in the shade of an understanding tree that recount the story of color from the perspective of a blind man. You is a mass of muscle and expectation and hope. We….I don’t talk about those bastards. But They..talk about a complex, red backed, many horned beast! It prowls the prairie looking for I’s to shred and dismember. Language is a world of plush pleasure, rich soil being recycled over and over by thirsty and verbose crops, and hunters of magnanimity.
Miniature Moon 