dust covers every key on the piano spiders have taken over the easel no one creates here anymore rain pattering window’s glass even on a sunny day the doors stay closed no one comes to knock or call newspapers stacked outside the door recall how long it has been thus a cat wanders this floor’sContinue reading “The Artist’s Winter”
I hear a tight jazz quartet smacking out lead-bottomed bass tinkling a shaker, with a half-open hi-hat some soft-fingered ivory tickling peppered with a gritty groan and cigarette smoke I sit, and listen, and I think to myself: why can’t life be just like that? -BSB
This isn’t my game anymore I was told to go home I kick the ball around once in a while still But I stopped playing the game They don’t want me in Unless I follow the rules And make a line for the pros But it’s not my game I’m no pro I don’t followContinue reading “It’s How (and If) You Play the Game”
This isn’t the end, because it isn’t better.
dawn sets land ablaze warms and eases writer’s cramp puts dead words to rest
sons of fallen lands fathers wandered far from home drove us out to nowhere’s middle left us alone to carve our way children of a lost revolt fathers to a new hope past cannot leave us unless memory’s forgotten what if we make believe we have no past perhaps we can be the first peopleContinue reading “generation lost”