Criticism. Essay. Fiction. Science. Weather.
Long enough, but no rambling, please.
A teacher once said, "A story should be like a woman's skirt, long enough to cover the topic, but short enough to be interesting." The teacher was an old bat and the idea of her having a "topic" that someone might want to see repulsed me. But, still.
Later, with poetry, I was to write a poem and tape it to my foot. Words fall away and I am left with just the poem.
They say Prosciutto is best with a hint of fat.
My vote, despite its loneliness, is not alone -- many votes sit here grieving, arguing, commiserating. They all shoot tequila. My vote chats up a vote who has amazing sapphire eyes and their decision to leave together is half reckless resignation and half attempted distraction; but by then a cruel sunrise is faint in the east and my vote is rendered impotent by all the alcohol and the two votes roll away from each other and sleep fitfully and suffer cottonmouth nightmares. My vote stumbles home in the bleary, red-eyed afternoon.
[to read Installment One, click here
(... is it really up to new york? or is it up to you?)
one day a little while ago i was running to get the subway at fourteenth
street, and in my hurry and worry i heard myself thinking:...surely they
can't leave without me!
of course, they could, and they did. the tree that falls in the empty forest
still makes a sound: new york will always turn, and turn, and turn around
itself, and i am the one choosing whether or not to turn along with it.