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On the stand is me. Much of the battered light beats shadows into my face. There is no judge, no jury. The room is empty, save for a sole typist’s typewriter that is blue on the exterior shell and a grey, hard metal on its keys. A faded wood from the Deco era panels the … Continue reading
You, Everyone knows there is no real thing as poetry, that it is effectively useless, that it fails in the practical like brushing one’s teeth or in stopping a man jumping off from the ledge, but still, during these hospital days, I think that too many are suffering from what is kept within a good … Continue reading
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