Friday, May 27, 2011
two squinting painted eyes
looking solemn on a leathery face.
this knight of the golden age
has a 20 gallon bucket of a hat
atop his slicked-back coif.
what thoughts hide under there?
with muscular thighs squeezing the stomach,
of a well-groomed,
with his pink silk shirt,
and his leather vest
and his neckerchief to one side,
and one fist asserting dismay
while grazing the hip-pocket
of his leather pants,
he is a manly figure.
Tickle your toes. . .
Ah, 7. The number in question. During this process of developing my first full-length work of prose, and a memoir to boot, I have considered...
In my dreams I am the fictional version of myself. The one I seek to be in my short-stories and prose. The one who gets her point across...
where are my garden gloves to weed out your evils? where are my rubber gloves to scrub off your stupid? where are my surgical gloves to cut ...