Edie Meade † American Wisdom [American sentences

Edie Meade

American Wisdom [American sentences]

A greased glass jar under each leg of the crib frustrates the scorpions. Get you a man who shakes out pantlegs, who inspects seams, who takes his time. Writes you in American sentences: consecutive, no chance of parole.

The second child hits different than the first – don’t get me started. A rainbow baby against a blue sky is still a little bit blue. Get some Blue Blockers if you want to see, or not, I’m not one to judge.

A house of glass jars, you better believe it my shoes stay on indoors. Vaseline is a byproduct of offshore oil rig pumps — get you some. Good for windburn, preventing diaper rash, keeping the scorpions down.

From time to time I feel like shaking my can, spray-painting some pallets. It’s all for sale, American flag décor on Facebook Marketplace. Get you some jelly jars, good for wedding receptions and scorpions.

You never know unless you check for carbon monoxide or radon. Men are always hiding dismembered bodies in basement crawlspaces. That’s what they say in details at eleven: he was the quiet type.

You always think it’ll be different when it happens on your block. You think you’d be able to smell a danger like that, but there’s the rub. Any news show worth its salt keeps “THE SILENT KILLER” graphic handy. You never know

when you need to report a tragedy or a crime. You can’t be a pillar of the community without tossing salt. As luck would have it, inflation-adjusted prayers are still so cheap. Count in American syllables by finger

by candlelight. That I’m a traditionalist explains my seasonal depression. Seasonal garments are getting harder to rend on my mom’s porch goose. Especially how

outside the Midwest, nobody sees the appeal. Especially now, when we’re all living in a desert of some kind. Nobody cares how a concrete goose is dressed for the end of the world.