On the cold porch, he takes it in and lets it burn, and thinks
My life
is crisis-free.
What can one write in a life without crises.
Others-
their crisis. Crises.
It isn’t hard. Take in their stories, spoken words recorded then parsed, summarized, distilled conveyed onto paper. A person, 3,582 words later, emerges. Without crises, he can write of theirs.
It is a lucky life, this one. That’s what he thinks. On a cold porch. In a small city.
A lucky life. No cries. No crises. No cry. Seas.
Another burn comes– He lets it in, then releases it. A small, perfect hurt, then quick release.
For him, each person is another cigarette, pulled from the pack, quickly lit and filtered.
Slowly processed, quickly expelled.
Smoke on a page.
Pain
and relief.
I liked this, sam. I’m not sure I like the indentation, or whatever, but the subject is good. is it a completed piece? i read it as being like mine, that is, something i wrote fast and excitedly and posted without trying to touch up. now, in my general taste, it’s just that i think anything like this should be imbedded in a longer bit about this character. i’m not one for poems, and if my stuff ever looks like poetry it’s just that i didn’t take the time to make it prose. any thoughts on genre?
April 13th, 2006 | #