Open Daily: 10am - 10pm | Alley door pickup 10am - 7pm 3038 Hennepin Ave Minneapolis, MN
612-822-4611

  • Open Daily: 10am - 10pm
    Alley-side Pickup: 10am - 7pm

    3038 Hennepin Ave Minneapolis, MN
    612-822-4611

Open Daily: 10am - 10pm | Alley-side Pickup: 10am - 7pm
3038 Hennepin Ave Minneapolis, MN
612-822-4611
On the Gnewness of Old Tings

On the Gnewness of Old Tings

Garrett, Daniel H.

Paperback

Erotica

ISBN13: 9798253114124
Publisher: Independently Published
Published: Mar 21 2026
Pages: 96
Weight: 0.31
Height: 0.20 Width: 6.00 Depth: 9.00
Language: English
Words words words. As far as the eye can see. They make us happy, they make us sad, they enrage us against each other. They tell us who we are and who we are not. They weave the stories by which we live our lives. We mistake them for who we are. Sometimes perhaps they might express some slight truth as to who we might really be. If they were edible, I might not be so hard on them. My chickens lay eggs. I hunch in the dark and cough out a poem or two, though the real poets would call them something else and that's ok. Words words words. Is there any escape from them? Is there a way to use them in such a way that they are trellises that shape the mind toward beauty and light and understanding and release? Turds turds turds, birds birds birds. Is the differentiation of any one thing from all other things really possible? All of that distinct separateness seems quite real to the touch, as we walk around lonely, or in love, or somewhere in between, flirting at the edge of absolute aloneness on the one hand and absolute togetherness on the other, and saying the right thing or the wrong thing can make such a difference. Those us of course who are beholden to the damn well-defined spoked and spooky utterances, over-rate them. While others -most beings perhaps- get along just fine without them. They seem to have the silent innate sense, to see what is and what is not and what is coming. So here we are again, me blathering on while the world burns at the hands of yet another idiot. If words have any magic at all within them, then someone, somewhere needs to hesitate before pulling the trigger. Better, far better, to fling quatrains and haiku at each other, and see what sticks, then mistake the chains that words can otherwise make of our freedom, as anything other than lies, and damn lies. Lies that that damn and dam the love in us that otherwise would flow quite freely.

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