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Another book finds me broken.
Flipping through page after page
searching for something,
anything that resembles an answer.
Hemingway told me to stick it out
stoically, brave and ever-ready.
Then the bastard blew the brains out of his head.
Plath mirrored my suffering
until the colors bled and the world spun.
I’ve got a foot in the grave,
she ended up with a head in the oven.
There were others, too
They all left something beautiful in their wake.
Kindly stepping away from the dwindling limelight of life
and always in bright flashes.
They touched or moved something.
It took only a moment; minutes or seconds
in some cases.
Years in others.
But they all left something
Exchanges aren’t always reciprocal.
As you find all I’m leaving is this.
Poem of the Week
who have experienced
on a large
i tell raif
i think my
might be dead
haven't seen her
& her car hasn't moved
for two weeks.
you would smell it
passing me a plate
of triangular shaped bread
slathered in jam.
Story of the Week
DARLEEN SQUEELED into the empty spot as soon as the gleaming white Mercedes pulled out. "We got lucky," she told Montana. "Even on a Monday night, this lot is killer."
Montana rolled her big blue eyes. "Whatever."
The eleven year old had better things to do, like text her friends. Incessantly, as if she had a tic. The kid hadn't wanted to shop tonight, but Darleen insisted. This was their first Christmas without Paulie and the girls needed to stick together. Darleen's ex had been nasty lately and mediation had hit a cement wall. Montana wasn't aware how dangerously close they were to losing access to Paulie's vast and unreported wealth.
Montana sighed dramatically as she yanked open the door of the Porsche Cayenne and tumbled out. She didn't pause in her texting.
Darlene checked her face in the rearview mirror. The most recent fat transfer had been wildly successful. She loved her new lips. Grabbing her Gucci bag, she hopped out of the front seat.
Her daughter trailed her into the mall, thumbs flashing on her phone keypad.