The Ish Caboose

Tagging along on the back end of my non-committal, one-word responses these days is a little gem that serves to lazily answer for all manner of inquiries.  I like it.  But it’s dangerous.  It’s like a drug.  You know it’s fun and feel-good and even entertaining at times…and yet, it can be very addictive in its seduction.  It can make you high, the life of the party; and it can steal your mind and your creativity…make you a sell-out.  I try to inject it sparingly, rationing out the rationale of using my little dime-bag of diction and in complete control of my verbiage…with my little secret, my love, my passionate…ish.

It started innocently enough.

It’s cold…ish.

It’s hot…ish.

I’m hungry…ish.

I’m nervous…ish.

He’s cute…ish.

But then, with a taste of the dreamy realm of possibility splattering across the page like so many freeform abstract paint strokes, I realized that simple adjectives cannot contain this substitute of subtext subverse.  I have relented to a stage of this…use…of ish as something that helps me to communicate complex verbiforms of words previously indefinable.  Now I can drive in my stick-shift languagemobile and be in complete control of where and when my pecking takes me, without lines and conforms and limits, without rules and consequence and ridicule.  I am, I snort, a mighty intellect with my ish, and I am in complete control.

Shall you present me with an unrealistic demand, depending on what I want, I shall perform.  Ish.  Should you inquire as to my appearance of caring, I shall assure you.  Ish.  And should the heavens open up and heave vomitous rain upon my path, I will maneuver.  Ish.

You see, this little sub-supposition, in the wrong hands, could be quite misused and even abused.  As I ponder the preponderance of probability, I see the inevitable demise of my gem, my hidden little jewelpiece that shines on my words exquisite and helps others to swallow them whole.

I would jail those who would attempt to extort extols of excrement in favor of the effort of linguistic langor.  I would strike down upon thee with great vengeance and anger, those who would pulpify my pudelistically potent palor for a pittance.  And I would defend with my pensword those who would rise up and bang boisterously on impressionable platforms of mirth the misgivings of minor hands at such moral ineptitude.  But I shall not judge.  I will not judge.  I know the seduction.  I am intimate with the infernal inference.

And so, in reverence to the inimitable, the all-knowing, the loving, loyal, lustful companion of conundrum, I sing its praises.

Behold, I raise my glass to you…ish.

I restrain my imbibence…ish.

With rhetoric and respect, I resolve to rely on you only as

a trusted friend…ish.

I renounce pithy, I renounce pun, I renounce the cheesy work I’ve done…ish.

And in glowing, glorious edification,

I sculpt an honorable homage,

With all the fortitude of will and won’t and want and wanton,

Amok in wild abandon,

I salute, with virtual vectored digits

Erect against somber brow,

Folded and neatly circumspect,

Delivered, deftly, deliberately, doubled over

In quiet final closure.

My patronage, in scarlet splendor,

Humbly rests upon your breast…ish.

No words can justify your existence, your expression,

Your steadfast solitude.

Just a little more of your tempting taunt,

A little further the fraying of form,

A little wider the elliptical edict…ish.

Your humble servant…ish.



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