by Philip Monte Verde
Ribs of mine, often I wish you would just go on holiday. Buy three tickets, and take my shirt and skin with you. Let my heart live openly.
I want my afternoons and evenings to fill with the joy of Saturday mornings. I want to write, to drive, to sing, to flirt, to kiss, to cry, to yell and scream. These ribs feel more like a chain than a shield. Layers of clothing cake on like the exhaust on glass that obscures views.
Openly. Not stuck behind unasked questions or subdued feelings. Ebullient with compliments. Smile-giving, life-reinforcing acknowledgements of the humanity in others. I want to give that face-reddening praise the way a loving husband gives flowers.
Oh, to take people out of the rut. To gently tug up a chin as a 1950's leading man might, to make moment cementing eye contact, and to tell a man, woman, or child that they are beautiful. That they are charming. That they exist.
That they exist. Too often we forget that even we exist. We lose sight of the only truth: that we are part of this world.
Ribs of mine, often I wish you would just go on holiday. Buy three tickets, and take my shirt and skin with you. Let my heart live openly.
I want my afternoons and evenings to fill with the joy of Saturday mornings. I want to write, to drive, to sing, to flirt, to kiss, to cry, to yell and scream. These ribs feel more like a chain than a shield. Layers of clothing cake on like the exhaust on glass that obscures views.
Openly. Not stuck behind unasked questions or subdued feelings. Ebullient with compliments. Smile-giving, life-reinforcing acknowledgements of the humanity in others. I want to give that face-reddening praise the way a loving husband gives flowers.
Oh, to take people out of the rut. To gently tug up a chin as a 1950's leading man might, to make moment cementing eye contact, and to tell a man, woman, or child that they are beautiful. That they are charming. That they exist.
That they exist. Too often we forget that even we exist. We lose sight of the only truth: that we are part of this world.
I sat in my car with the door open one sunny morning. Morosely, I pondered absolutely nothing, stared into the space between objects, and cracked open sunflower seeds. The shells I spat out on the driveway without thought. Time passed outside the head that I was stuck in. I got up and continued the motions of productivity. In the afternoon I returned to that driveway. Looking down, as I had been all day, I noticed little black ants had found the remnants of the sunflower seeds. Diligent strongmen had clamped seed meat in their mandibles. Fleet scouts left curling pheromone trails to guide their brothers to the next lode. I could almost picture the food being prepared for the colony by chubby ants in tiny chef hats.
Knowing I was helping to feed an over-sized family, I sat back down and cracked more sunflower seeds with my now smiling teeth. It was a timely reminder from the littlest among us that I was part of something larger.