memories explode out of my nostrils when the smell of chlorine hits, reminding me of the pool parties of my youth where we used to swim until our toes wrinkled
Suburbs reminds me of the ten ‘allowed’ blocks we road on, playing hide and go seek bicycle-style, racing through forbidden parking lots and dreaming of blue moon while riding the penny horse at Stroh’s ice cream shop and tearing through the neighbors yard every day, hopping the fence until the neighbor is so frustrated that he replaces it with a gate just for us which we use religiously to meet up with our best friends until the day comes that we move into the rural landscape that makes me find my whole heart where I race with the dogs until the sun has long gone down breathing in the wild air and declaring myself a native to the land determined to finish building the fort out of fallen pine trees and to climb the highest rung on the small windmill beside the barn – our farm of chickens, ducks, goats, and horses brings out the deepest love even as it brings about more chores.
There is something magical, and musical about the run-on sentence.
The ups and downs of the sounds of the words keeping you going as you read it, breathless as you near the end. A gasp here and there when a comma or hyphen allow for you to catch your breath.
I have become fascinated with the use of the run-on as it would work in poetry, bringing music and more to our ears, even when the subject matter is quite mundane and dull. The above is me reminiscing about my life in the suburbs of Detroit, and the transformation when I moved to rural West Michigan.
