I read somewhere that weeds are the rodents of the plant world,
that they are sneakily aggressive, opportunistic, fiercely feral,
that they should be weeded out. I have heard this language before;
little good comes from it. Where are the Wordsworths of Weeds?
Plath comes closest, celebrating mushrooms. I like the strange,
tangled beauty of weeds, their punk swagger, their dogged persistence.
They too one day might inherit the earth.
This is how it starts.
You bring up that phone call
At the Jewellers.
It could have waited, you say.
It was important, I snap. You have no sympathy.
Tit for tat.
You go on about my clothes on the back-seat
Of the car.
I go on about your obsession with tidiness.
Stop, can you hear it? You say.
We both listen.
Ahhh, the floodgates, I say.
Let’s not go on with this, you say.
We give each other the peace sign.
His stomach feels knotted. Should he, or shouldn’t he? Will he? Once again he flings his frustrations hard into the distance, but they twist and turn in the cold air and boomerang back at him, landing at his feet,
When I started out on my post on Pachelbel he was, in spite of being dead a few hundred years, in pretty good nick. Now it has come to my attention that he is not well. Worse, he has undergone a frightful transformation. ‘Transmogrified’ is the word.
Literal minded, know nothing, bossy auto-correct is the villain.
Whenever I wrote ‘Pachelbel,’ auto-correct fiercely underlined it with red, saying, No, No, that is not a word.[it is doing it now]. Then what word am I after? I asked. The word you are after it asserted was — wait for it! — ‘Bellyache’. What? Are you mad? I said. How do you get ‘Bellyache’ out of ‘Pachelbel’? Auto-correct became belligerent and I’m sad to report we came to fisticuffs. Finally bruised and black-eyed I over-rode auto-correct. There was no way soothing Pachelbel would become painful Bellyache! Afterwards though I did have a good belly-laugh over it.
Auto-correct is no longer speaking to me.
Have you had similar problems with auto-correct?
You had to fore warn people.
It was not a good look.
Scabs and bruises on the upper lip
Sores on the nose
So you said, “bar room brawl”
Half jokingly, “but you should have seen
The other fellow.”
It was more dramatic, more grunge-romantic
Than humdrum “cold sores.”
She likes the new me, the gentler me.
The one that’s considerate and consoling.
The nicer me. The fun me.
The accepting me.
Not the old one
Who criticizes and condemns
From his high moral ground.
Though we all know the old me lurks
just beneath the surface.
The creature from the black lagoon.
You’re barking up the wrong tree, he said.
I don’t care, I snapped.
But you’re barking, he said. People don’t do that.
It’s my backyard, I said. I can bark if I want to.
I guess so, said the man, patting me warily on the head as I wagged my tail against his chinos.