It’s kind of a waste of time and energy, this precious dance with and around words. I mean it’s not worthless. Some of the movement has meaning but nothing really stops me in my tracks. I’m more moved by an urge to light a fire underneath its artifice than anything in its litanies for language.
Dear Jim by Matthew Langley
Dear me. Coyote. Wire. Rock. A frosty mug filled with lottery tickets.
Postmortem by Clare Rossini
Now this one tries awfully hard to say something that can’t be said, and says it pretty well. At first it uses its language like an instrument, something to measure the distance from life to some cold hard object. Then it turns to self-analysis, prayer, and finally ending with some acceptance of a mystery. And in the meantime, the mechanics of the thing is working hard in the background reinforcing all. No, this ain’t half-bad at all.
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