Half the time I make Walt Whitman sound
modest. That’s no mean feat, but
it’s easily accomplished when you’re the
crowning glory of existence: the
capstone of the universe.
Then, something happens.
Or, nothing happens.
True genius– barely
constrained on vinyl,
released by a diamond
stylus– cannot
be denied.
I’m never been to
William Duffy’s farm,
and I’m not one for hammocks.
But the conclusion is the same.
Check out my micro-story published by twitter-zine PicFic. You can follow them on Twitter @picfic.
It ain’t The Last Picture Show, but check it out anyway. A very short story of mine – three tweets to accompany three photos. Check it out at PicFic and follow @PicFic on Twitter.
When houses
appreciated and mortgages
flowed like champagne,
the inbox on my desk
was constantly full.
Now, I have no inbox.
I have no desk.
I have no office.
I sit in a box
called a cubicle.
I sit in one box
on Fridays and Mondays,
and a second box
on Saturdays and Sundays.
I don’t know those
who sit in the boxes
on the days I don’t.
They don’t have inboxes, either.
Prompted by We Write Poems Thursday Prompt #1: Boxes
Travellers:
weary but game,
wielding harsh words and
Tyson Fury if
you mess with us.
In response to the prompt at Rallentanda’s POW (Poetry On Wednesday).
The bottle arrived from
God-knows-where, driven
by forces beyond the
control of the sender. He had
simply cast the bottle to the
sea, trusting winds and currents to
deliver it safely to its destination.
The message inside:
Don’t be like me.
.