Snobbin: Beautiful Trash in the Pop Culture Gutter

Stung by mosquitoes that are driven by bloodlust I sit in the outhouse of undeniable redoubt Please give me this boon, the living of the senses A sensory world that never fades I lose my voice, amidst the bullfrog croak Greenery and tree root, the slap of tail on water 

I'm trying to write longer, languorous lines, you know, as I have not been writing like I should. These lines might form a rib, a bit, an attempt at honest expression, or an artistic endeavor to keep me from my dotage. To shake off the brain fog, post-Covid before I fix my shaky, sore carpal tunnel hands and get back to work. I wake up numb in brain, fingertips straining and hurting, finding it hard to talk, momentary, mental lapses, and an inability to move, work, or think. The cabin helps as the bright sun shakes off the long upper Midwest winter, which felt like it lasted eight months this year. The mosquitoes materialize from seemingly nothing to work like tiny Draculas on all available creatures. A bald eagle screeches in its deceptively tiny bird voice, and the chipmunks chase each other with much commentary. A toad hops through the gray dirt of the campfire pit in search of a cool escape from the torturous sun's red rays. I defog as I watch every other creature move thro...

As spring turns to summer, I often feel old as I remember all of the summers I have spent lazily reading comics and fiction or watching television when I know that I should be writing. Of course, I also spend time outside, usually bicycling, walking, or swimming. These days, however, I generally feel too warm as the humidity and temperature creep up to a shocking eighty degrees. There were many summers where I spent time fishing or running down the sidewalks of my old neighborhood, tripping over the roots of tired trees that lined the walk. One year a friend and I shamefully rode our bikes into sapling poplar trees, leaving black, oozing marks on their trunks. Last time I checked there was only one of those trees left, still battle scarred and defiant. The tree is thirty feet tall now, but its trunk is gnarled and shrunken from our youthful transgressions. Another time I rode my bicycle into a nearby water-filled ditch to avoid bees that were chasing me. They still stung me, and it...