Bombs were the last thing on his mind. He had to find Emma. He fought against the flow of people pressing against him. He had long ago given up on trying to be civil and careful with the people going the other way. Panic showed in their eyes as in his. Where was she? Emma he called, Emma. Louder, again and again. Emma! His voice cracked the lump in his throught killing all sound. He pushed harder pressing himself through tiny spaces between and over people. The farther he got the more chaotic his surroundings. Emma, he looked around, scanning...
She was confused. Usually there was a title, a prompt, a line, a place to start from. Today it simply said "Write as you please, in six minutes, like a breeze".
Breeze, now there's a word she was familiar with. There was always a breeze, always a cruel wind. It hunched her shoulders and tightened her neck and made it a necessity to always be wound around in a scarf, tightly constricted.
Breeze is a soft sounding word, reminiscent of the ocean, the sea, sail boats and people swimming. It makes one think of a Coastal town, of Europe, of...
I desire no pity, and I deserve no pity. This is my own personal Mark of Cain, and it is one I have brought to myself. There is always a price to such things, to knowledge and desire. His dark hand covers my face, and one day this mark will come to be paid. In the meantime, I am not without benefit. And I am not without resource.
I can seek out answer in library and archive. I may find none, and I would still have no regret when the great darkness at the very edge of human vision comes...
Deep into the meadows of the South
I see a bus pulled up in front of the common store.
Above my head are alluring clouds
I have never seen before.
Things like this are rare.
No one visits my small Southern town.
Where things are bound to happen.
Spellbound.
Do you think that bus is skeptical?
I do.
There are no visitors in this town.
Whoever comes in
Never gets out.
I learned the hard way.
Write as you please,
In six minutes,
Like a breeze.
I fear that,
Without a prompt,
The words won't flow,
Compet-
ently.
So I'll leave you this poem,
With it's oddities and misrhymes,
Mismatched verse and rhythms,
Lines that run out of time.
Words that make no sense,
Lines that are too dense,
And of course you must remember,
In this chilly month of September,
That poetry doesn't have to rhyme.
Sam, having slung hot dogs into buns on the street corner for the majority of his 35 years, had seen a lot. A lot of anger, a lot of hurt, a lot of disgust. He though he had seen it all until today. He served up the Ball Park Frank with sauerkraut as he usually did, hot off the grill and dripping with grease, and the blue collar recipient took it in hand, as they usually do, and generously dressed it with the brown spicy mustard that was the typical street corner fare. They never had time for much else--eating...
The argument over the preferred pronunciation of "Pax Romana" bloomed into a bloody fistfight, not that it was terrifically violent so much as the pugilists were notorious bleeders. The patch of snow on which they sparred began to resemble the flag of Japan as arms unfurled, elbows snapped back, and fists clenched so tight, thumbs overlapped knuckles.
Inside, my kung pow shrimp cooled under the air vent.
I heard it again. "It's hell getting old! One, to say this is to show total disregard to the countless lives cut short never having the opportunity to experience all life has to offer living to an old age. Two, to say this is to show little or no realization that a lifelong of memories can only be gathered living to an old age. That's no hell to me. I will savor every moment. It sure beats the alternative.
My word muscles are stiff. My writing bones ache. The prose reads like a bruise.
I burst bored air through my lips, upsetting the dust on my keyboard.
I see a tangerine, withered in the shadow of an orange, withering; dust on the hand sanitizer; a rubber band ball in a novelty stein; an orgy of paper clips; surrounded by colors, none too vivid, the only highlights are the highlighters.
The building I thought they were slowly constructing around me is being stripped as bare as a gazelle felled by a lion, shred by hyenas, cleaned by maggots.
I wasn't...
Taste is a matter of where and where you grew up. I am lucky enough to be born in a Country where taste can be seen and savored on a daily base and almost everywhere. Italy is made of taste; great taste, not only concerning the food, but it applies also to cars, shoes, clothing, manners and beautiful ladies. We all know what a man should do to make a lady feel great, isn't that considered taste? When we eat at home or at the fanciest restaurant on the coast do we know what wine is to be matched with...