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He is in his rooms in the Kenmore Hotel,

Once-gracious lady favored by the ancient city’s elite,

Now tired old harlot patching and spackling with powders and rouges Read More »

She had always smiled. Getting a smile out of his mother was no mean feat; not that she was dour or stern, exactly, but it wouldn’t be a stretch to call her “businesslike”, not unlike many other of the mothers whose husbands worked in the factories of Cohoes (his father worked second shift at a specialty steel mill down on Mohawk Street, and he didn’t see him much during the week, unless he got a bit too rambunctious at breakfast, at which time he saw all he wanted of him and then some), leaving their wives with most of the heavy-lifting in terms of child rearing. He would draw her pictures of flowers and trees and, later on, pictures of them walking hand-in-hand to the grocery store or a portrait of her hanging laundry on the clothesline. She smiled at his drawings—not just because they were his, but also because they were actually quite good, certainly better than the run-of-the-mill pictures posted on other refrigerators with a watermelon-slice-shaped magnet. Read More »

There are the mysteries of life, those of faith

(Leastwise according to Pastor, though I suspect

That is the get out of jail free card one acquires

By standing upright in the pulpit) Read More »

We need to construct boxes, this world being complex

And messy to boot, so we approximate sanity

By filling compartments and writing thumbnail biographies, Read More »

We have the full complement of the requisite barriers:
Barbed wire, barren landscape, unpleasant canines,
Stark towers with vaguely menacing turrets and gunsights Read More »

We’d forgotten the smell, quite frankly,
The slightly citrus tang in the nostrils,
Accompanied by the roaring of the cannon-shaped mixer,
Though there was a time the whole town had a certain odor to it, Read More »

As far as these children are concerned,
It is the sky itself that is ringing;
They probably do not know Read More »

There are, dear daughter, oceans between us
(At your insistence, though I say this without rancor)
A buffer from the memories of our sad antics, Read More »

He’d been away for any number of years,
Days cascading over the spillway of time
Into pools of weeks, oxbows of months, Read More »

In fact, they will, at certain times in certain locales, toil or spin,
For sometimes the exigencies of the gray and workaday world
Are immune to the notion that there exist rare entities Read More »

grapeling

it could be that

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