I just got done filing my taxes; pardon me while I bury my heart in yonder godforsaken patch of stony earth, where nothing will ever grow again. [Too much?] To quote “Raising Arizona”: “Gov’ment sure do take a bite, don’t she?”
I would say “Bite me, government,” except that I am a lady.
I’m going to join a militia. Taxes-shmaxes. Banana-fana-fo-faxes.
MILITIA PERSONAGE: Who be you, up here in the north woods, young whippersnapper?
ME: Just call me “Treasury’s Bane”.
MILITIA PERSONAGE: Aye.
Did you know that you can get a tax break for “river edge re-development”?
So! How about those pirates, huh? CBS cut in with a Special News Report during the Masters on Sunday afternoon [the Masters, which I was watching with my family, and yes: I was completely emotionally invested in the outcome of the Masters after watching for approximately five minutes]. The juxtaposition between golf and drama on the high seas was nearly too much for us to collectively handle. And can we talk about how often we all got to see the phrase high seas this past week? You could practically see newsanchorpersons smacking their lips with joy as they reported on the story:
NEWSANCHORPERSON ONE: Pirates!
NEWSANCHORPERSON TWO: Wheeeee!
That night, on the news, we watched as a Captain of some sort admiringly discussed the “three clean shots to the head” performed by the snipers. He ended his interview with: “Happy Easter!”
Oh, how we laughed!
I just found out that an artichoke is a flower. Holy cats! Did everybody else know this?
Is it just me, or does this look like a plant that…eats people?
I’m sorry that this blog is super short and weird.
It’s just that I’ve been really tired for about six months now.
How do we know it’s not matter that matters
but matter’s absence, elegies of matter
like air between the columns of these trees:
not lines of wood but lines of air between
the trunks’ sticks, the thin spaces that aren’t wood,
clear stalks grown up beside the sold lines,
those breezy hollows filled with non-existence?
I’ve seen what happens to a body’s absence:
grief fills up an arid space that grows
bleak, empty channels reaching for the light
then fading to a watery, sheer background
like the space between these trees night’s
flimsy winds tilt slightly. –Lines of air.
Maybe the real trees shouldn’t matter
more than their surrounding stalks of air.
Let’s see both trees and space for what they are:
a grove of roseate fading, dusky columns
showing us how wooden trunks defer
to lines of gray-pink, dimmed, dividing light
clear emptiness curves over. Who’s to say
the mingled light and shadow stalks that grow
between trees as trees waver out of view
at dusk, aren’t the best evidence of trees?
If things are always outlined by the space
around them, isn’t absence what they are?
Shouldn’t we treasure those sheer columns more?