Love is a Clichè

My friend fell in love once,
so I asked him what it was like.
He told me that
Love is that feeling when your heart
gets so full of sweetness that it turns into
a beautiful marshmallow, and every time it
beats it feels like a cotton-candy cloud is
tickling your insides, causing you to laugh at every
passing second, making your joy swell to the point
of swooning, but instead rainbows just burst out of your mouth
every time you exhale and every time you inhale your
lungs fill up with bubbles made of dreams and your eyes get clouded
every passing moment by the daffodils that won't stop sprouting from them,
falling to the ground every time you blink, leaving a trail of yellow petals
everywhere you go like some majestic slug who instead of oozing slime provides the world
with such feelings of affection as to look upon it instantly instills the viewer with such profound
palpitations that their heart, nay, their soul is prone to brusting into a cloud of glitter, wafting ever closer to heaven.

Needless to say, I don't think I've ever been in love.

(In/a)spire

Inspire denotes to blow into or breathe in. 
Along with inspire
comes aspire. Note the same root spire
Which means to breathe.

Inspiration has a lot of sources.
The inspiration for the titles
Transcendentalist, Mormon and Quaker
All came from their critics.
The inspiration for the walls of ancient cities,
Sprouted out of progress and prosperity.

Ironic.

There is good inspiration,
When the Muse blows into your chest
Like CPR.
Except the air goes straight to the back of the neck
Where it pushes all your hairs up and waits to be itched.

Maybe inspire and aspire are so closely connected
to breathing, because from the first surprised and blinking breath we take
til the last one slithers off our tongue,
We are doing always that human hoping.

A Haiku

by Wesley Turner


I spent ten minutes
Writing these three lines for you.
I hope you like them.

On Concussions

My roommate got five stars stitched into his head.

And a Concussion.

He didn't remember any of it. Or any of the day before. Or the day before.

This morning he woke up and found a note that informed him of his situation. It also told him to take some pills for nausea if he had any. By then, he remembered the day before, and the day before the day before. But he didn’t remember the accident or the hospital. 

What if while he was in the emergency room there was a little girl in the chair next to him, and he told her not to be scared and they had a really great conversation? He doesn't remember it if he did. He doesn't remember a whole person. 

Maybe.


What if you got hit harder? Seven stars hard. What if you forgot who you were and no one left any notes? What if you had to relearn everything about yourself?

Would it be like, you had to find out that person you were so you could be yourself again?

Or would it be compare and contrast? You know. Who you were and who you want to be.

Japan

Sometimes I think about Japan.

And when I do it's like a film I
need to get around to seeing.

Even though tickets are fifteen
hundred dollars instead of eight
fifty.

And there are no subtitles or
rental stores that will have it
in three months because the
Projectionist inserted the reel
three thousand years ago
and doesn't care that I’m missing it.

So sometimes I go to the internet

and look up pictures of Japan.
walk under scarlet pagodas
feel the warmth of secluded onsen
converse with statues of mysterious pasts and
for a moment stop worrying so much about
movies and subtitles.

Following Your Dreams (And other Terrible Ideas)

A cautionary tale:

This semester has been kicking my trash so far. If I'm not at work I'm at school, if I'm not at school I'm in the library, if I'm not at the library I'm stuffing my face with a handfull of Frosted Flakes and putting pants on simultaneously.

And I'm trying to like English. 

Like in Highschool, when I would drink in the pages and feel the words dripping between my ribs. When the ink would stain my bones black and white. When wet flakes of paper could be found between my teeth.

Now things are different:
Read. Deconstruct. Interpret. Next.
Read. Deconstruct. Interpret. Next.

I think I have a dangerous disease. I think the reason I'm not enjoying reading as much as I used to is because I'm not writing myself.

And now suddenly I think I'm going to have to write and write till my wrists break and my eyes turn cold and gray. I think I'm going to have to pay for an education in writing. I think I'm going to make a terrible decision and start listing "Writer" under my intended life plan, with my intended major being "Starvation".

I don't think this is a good idea, I don't advocate it, and I don't think it will turn out well for me. But I don't think I can bear not to write. When I swallow the words and push them into the darkest depths of my stomach I feel them burning ulcers, escaping into my blood, crawling beneath my skin.

My point is, I'm going to start vomiting my excess words here as often as I can. Anecdotes, imagery, even perhaps an occasional poem (gross). I'm hoping you get something out of it. And, if you don't, that I'll realize it soon enough to switch to Business or Accounting.

You know, something practical.

User Agreement

By reading this sentence you are hereby agreeing to refrain from judging me for starting a blog. You agree to accept the fact that "blog" is kind of a stupid word, and you agree to change your opinion of the sort of people who have blogs (i.e. me). You agree that "ampersand" is a fun word (and a great name for a black kitten), and that placing "anonymous"before it makes it even more fun to say. You agree that any pictures, ideas or posts found here were my idea first, and my idea only*, and that they are all wildly funny, heartbreakingly beautiful or intensely poignant depending on the context. You agree that it is just too bad that Blogger doesn't allow you to make those tiny numbers next to words that indicate footnotes, and that by lacking this important tool they have robbed me of a creative outlet. You also agree not to say anything if Blogger indeed does have said option. Most of all, you agree to read this blog religiously, tell your friends about it, and inform potential investors of what a profitable enterprise it would be to give me $50,000. Because we all know that this blog is going to be a big hit, and that I'm not going to make a fool of myself.

...right?


*For a funnier "user's agreement", please see Amy Krause Rosenthal's Encyclopedia of an Ordinary Life which I have almost completely plagiarized.