At a time in my life during which I can’t develop a theme to constitute an entire blog post, I’ve decided to merely spit out random sentences. How can I justify such incomplete and incoherent writing? By calling it a poem, that’s how.
Fred’s. Because Walmart is too expensive.
A 5-year old dancing like Shakira disturbs me.
She is no longer on the play date list.
Back pain. Hip pain. Damn, I’m old.
A lazy eye allows both shyness
And direct eye contact.
Hot Tamales are terribly named.
There’s nothing remotely Mexican about them.
I like tamales.
I love tamales and I love Hot Tamales. But one has nothing to do with the other.
Imagine there was an ice cream flavor named Cold Tortilla (get past the just plain gross aspect of this scenario), people would be pissed that it tasted nothing like tortillas.
I realize that no one in his right mind would think that these little red capsules taste like tamales, but it’s the principle of it. I’m not going to let these things slide by simply because the economy is in the toilet. I’m ever vigilant.
I love tea.
There once was a man from Nantucket,
Who one day sat down to write poetry,
Then thought better of it.
I have many memories that are as clear as a bell. One of them is sitting in Shoney’s at 2 a.m. During a lull in the conversation, and without any predicate or premise, I hear in a slightly drunk and longing voice, “I love tea.”
TB, Robert Frost would feel rivaled, but proud. I’ve often wondered why the man from Nantucket would want to do such a thing.
I miss Fred’s. We don’t have them here.
There’s a Fred’s right next to the Target here in Jackson. It served as the inspiration for my wonderful poem. I was imagining the shoppers in Fred’s thinking, “These spatulas are just too expensive at Walmart and Target.”