Here Stands a Catapult Emily Dickinson Rented
Here stands a catapult Emily Dickinson rented to advertise notebook
rhymes. She moved upstate, complaining that New York City seemed ugly
and talentless, and made artisan breads for additional revenue.
The dough apparatus sent a bit of sourdough out the jettison. Revenue
from Dickinson's vocation redeveloped poetry's prospects, but saving
poetry allowed crime to become successful. The prattle faction of
America swore that poems could be our generation's champagne, but
ungrateful New Englanders had a sweet tooth, nothing else. "Lose the
verses," they'd click. "Make sandwiches."
The sourdough region approved her company's new application to fashion
salad dressings. From there, Dickinson created her almost proverbial
and best-loved milled wheat sandwiches. "Thank you," she expressed at
the sandwich festival. Thirty-seven dieticians applauded. Poets with
leek and potato soup, women gradually losing to their diets, all were
hushed and transformed by Dickinson's stripped-down acceptance speech.
Fat men who swore poetry was just for the women silenced each other.
Dickinson said, "The bread you're eating with those milled-wheat
sandwiches comes from a poet who's committing suicide every day."
It was a bunk-bed feeling. A seriousness of billiards proportions hit
us. A Dickinson Bakery shutdown meant we'd miss doughnuts, perhaps
crullers or giant maple rings. Facing such a consideration, the appeal
of poetry receded.
Mickey Hess and his three grandsons live in Monkeys Eyebrow, Kentucky