American Sentences

Guthrie Martin residence, two sides of a bedroom window, 5:02 p.m. May 25, 2010:

The oil-dark bird flew from my attic, turned to look at me through the glass.

My language no longer matches up with my perceptions: It tells lies.

The birds are handled and washed, handled and washed, handled and washed, handled.

Nathan Moore overheard telling his children to stop making mud in the family’s backyard. 2010, Pickerington, Ohio:

Don’t make mud, don’t make mud, stop making mud—OK, but don’t get dirty.

Flailing

Sometimes being in the public eye means being treated like a public toilet.

Context is everything; lack thereof, nothing.

If you find it is difficult to float, you are not floating—you are flailing.

Others speaking on your behalf is not the same as your speaking for yourself.

If you start in resignation, you will end in resentment.

Professionalism means never having to say “I love you.”

We strap foam pieces to our feet and move forward at a plodding pace.

Halfway there, I turn and turn again, until there becomes here; here, there.

Your lectures about the rights of mannequins make me admire you more.

The day unfolds like a leisure suit squashed at the bottom of a drawer.

Wild, I ran toward you carrying peas as peas slipped through my fingers.