Each day we go about our business, walking past each other, catching each others' eyes or not, about to speak or speaking. All about us is noise. All about us is noise and bramble, thorn and din, each one of our ancestors on our tongues. Someone is stitching up a hem, darning a hole in a uniform, patching a tire, repairing the things in need of repair.
I was listening to President Obama take the oath of office as I crossed the Mississippi River from Missouri into Illinois.
Someone mentioned that his speech was in some type of accentual syllabic meter, but it's not scanning that way for me.
I feel like I've been on an eating tour of the Midwest. Whew.
I had fried pickles. Yes, Stacey. I had them. What's scary is that I liked them.
Cloud Cult--"Everybody Here is a Cloud"