The Dialectic of Finger Traps

It is she who lost her hydrogen and must fetishize herself in denial. She has an uneasy remand with her lunchbox: objection, objection! The most remarkable assertion is the dialectic of finger traps, wholly without precedent.

Wholly holy in the warp and woof of latter day unrhymed couplets.

Her prominent mother’s tensions are depicted as completely natural. The ministerial portfolio constantly hovers around her resentment. She commands an imminent dissolve and eminent crosscut, though she prefers the term lap dissolve.

She feels no remorse for the 400 earthquakes plotted around Mt. St. Helens recently.

Nothing saintly there. Not remotely.

She wants to riot in the snow. She wants to dollop a bristle benchmark of freshly ground … round or peanut butter?

The grapefruit navigators are mustered. Snowblowers are scrambled. Then one full minute of delusion leads to a break with policy, an unremitting appeal to unreason, and personal harm.

What I’m Reading:

“The time of year has grown indifferent.
Mildew of summer and the deepening snow
Are both alike in the routine I know.
I am too dumbly in my being pent.”

— Wallace Stevens / “The Man Whose Pharynx Was Bad”