a literary confidence
As he said this, he began removing what appeared to be crumpled homemade flyers from my hands. They advertised Italian lessons at home and outboard motors for sale, charity 5ks and flower shows. And I held them in tightly clenched fists, like a crabby schoolteacher who snatches paper airplanes out of mid-air.
Here Comes Herodotus, Again! (and other miscrohistories), is a forty-page chapbook comprised of 14 short stories which examine how life can be a series of swift mementos.
Tonight's theme is the Western, that hallowed, long past its heyday but not totally bygone (if I have anything to do with it), genre of Hollywood storytelling.
Surely, they are castaways now and although I cannot see them, I hear them chattering when I put my ear to the sea.
Scuttling on his knees now, he crossed to the other side of the boat and dropped the fish into a bucket of water. He knew what he had to do next.
To my teenage self, dizzy with wonder at the lyrics of “A Whiter Shade of Pale,” Keith Reid looked brainy and hip, which I didn’t know could be a thing, but there he was in band photographs, usually front and center, as if he was Mr. Procol Harum himself.
But tell me, did I not suffer a vision, that is to say, see something dreadful at my door?
The whole business makes me dippy, and honestly, I don’t care about any of it unless there’s some magic in the work itself, a spark in the melody or the lyric that will distinguish the work the way all great art is distinguished, by its timelessness and universal appeal. A song, for the sake of this argument, like the small wonder that is 1968’s, “Till Death Us Do Part.”
I dream that I forget in which direction I am headed. The road splits. I panic and take an exit unknown to me. It doesn’t make any difference.
long suffering spring phrases seek a shot of poetry B-12
Just Between You and Me 