The pink velvet stool in the salon window
assigned to you by virtue of your affection
went missing this evening.
I walked up Sutter from Stockton
and down my sleepy avenue — 4 miles —
in search of happiness or answers.
Finding neither but feeling foolish, persistent
I passed by the window where I was sure to find
the tiny, stubborn vestige of your love.
My surprise was potent, insane!
Bereft and standing idly at midnight
by a salon shop window, I found
the absence akin to a phantom limb:
the shop became merely a shop, anonymous.
Even the street misses you now.
Art unlike life is perfect
and malleable, like love:
wont to reproduce forever
like perfect fish or
think I know either
well enough to try my hand.
Unsurprisingly, like trying
to swim out of my depth
I drown in constant doubt
and constant wonder.
I’m so bored! thinking
of all the people
I had to meet
before I met you!
Salinger returned with a palsy
and a wont for sitting alone
with Green Apple’s free books.
Spied nightly tucked into a donut
shop corner, Salinger reads — mouth
agape against his will, hunched
over the night’s printed finds,
hair whiter than his portrait,
pallid, unappealing, yet tall,
unmistakable: the anonymous
harbinger of times extinct.
In my borrowed streets, I walk
alongside him silently, he
an apparition not noticing me
a perma-teen, astonished, starstruck.
We exist in moments of time passing
in tired, page-turning nights
of doubt, reconsidering
and incessant retracing.
Left today among
the dead writers
words my own.
a McGraff —
long gone —
then stole a
Romanian immigrant’s poems
on Baton Rogue
and other places
I’ve never been.
Friends I’ve invented work at diners
and coffee shops ’til the sun sets.
At night, who knows what they do? They don’t
exist excepting our interactions, yet I
often wonder, worry about them — how
might their lives have led to mine, their
mistakes, lost opportunities and loves.
How come drab rooms become dank wombs
for the dark and lowly people, my friends?
Friends, I’m proud to present The Adept Writer #2. Our lineup this week features nine authors you need to start paying attention to:
Natalie Hernandez’ “Red Light District” sizzles with sex.
Claire LeDoyen’s math poetry is unlike anything you’ve ever seen. Really.
Joel Nickel’s latest work may have you questioning social media and/or your sanity.
Andrew Hill’s carefully chosen words are guaranteed to singe.
A.A. Knight presents a gripping psychological portrayal of the dynamics of relationships.
JihbazFubyok hammers hard, presenting the reality of life without compromise.
Deyalyn Batista is a first-timer publishing with The Adept Writer. Her work is stunningly artful, yet visceral.
Ryan McGinnis’ poem will haunt, deconstructing the essence of love.
Samantha McLain’s work stands up with the best of The Twilight Zone.
Alfonso Colasuonno, Founder, The Adept Writer
You can follow Ryan at: scriabinist.tumblr.com and rrmcginnis.tumblr.com
It is Sunday at around one in the morning, and it’s the Jack in the Box on Geary. Inside, it is as packed now as it would be at one in the afternoon. Outside, a cadre of police officers are surrounding a man, with their…
Enjoy my typo.