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More than just a game. by Eduardo Salles http://identidadgeek.com/el-ajedrez-y-la-vida/2010/01/
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Bodega
I was in that bodega the one on the street corner with the bowls of ladyfingers and bananas and punnets of scotch-bonnets on astro-turfed plinths outside. Inside the elderly Asian owner had just declined my order of lychee Rubicon and Glen’s vodka. He decreed that my I.D. was actually a forgery and despite my twenty-nine mediocre years he was absolute in assuring me I was actually not the age I was. The age I am. “I’m twenty-nine... C’mon, mate?!” My protestations fell on deaf ears as I tired to elucidate his conviction in an unflinching opinion that despite my fortnight beard and washed out pallor I was still a minor. And with a forthright tongue he asked me to leave for being belligerent and creating a scene. And as I left I bashed into a bolshy granny resplendent with tartan shopping-trolley. Whilst still within earshot I heard her proclaim with audible disdain: “I hate the kids of today. So Incredibly rude!” I retaliated and shouted: “I’m twenty-nine, dear!” But again the facts of my life fell on deaf ears.
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The Hard Men of Literature
Earnest Hemingway (July 21, 1899 – July 2, 1961)
Earnest Hemingway was an architect of prose admired by its beautifully powerful economy. He also had an unwavering blood lust. If it lived, ran, flew or swam he wanted to catch, stab, or shoot the beast; including himself in the end. Furthermore, any writer whose style is described as “lean, hard and athletic” is an incontestable literary hard man in anyone’s book.
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To stand on that street
watching the final people exit
watching you put your hand upon my face
watching us lose our place,
In our queue for the answer –
we seemed to have found
(in each other).
But yet have lost
as we lose the others
shed a layer,
press our hands into smiles
and dry...
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Out on the terrace of a try-hard boozer
you spoke about your craving for
high adventure. Releasing yourself from
the routine you seem to keep. Chasing yourself
across clandestine water. The untraveled atolls
of Micronesia. Antipodean plains and the
still life of the tundra. As it were I...
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Max chords a royal rumpus! Where The Hip Things Are by Alvaro Alteaga http://www.society6.com/studio/alvarejo/Where_the_Hip_Things_Are http://ianbrooks.tumblr.com
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The sky is rendered rosé wine
and melancholy with today’s
fading memories. The buildings bruise
as dusk becomes night.
Across the brick boughs and
cast iron vines listen to a train strain;
duress at the weight of its own freight.
Fleeing from this blazing horizon.
Trailing on a listless...
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I am the girl, but never the woman
sometimes I wonder if even I’m human.
I am the mucus, but never the spit.
I am the kettle, the blackness, the pit.
I am the needle, but never the eye
I am the hair, but un-fashionable, un-dyed.
I am the turn, but never the table.
I am the bark, the horses,...
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Here, in this archaic room exists the agency.
Born into freedom,
these white middle class,
middle managed,
mis-managed,
people
freely
enter and exit this labyrinth of rooms at will.
Here, in this archaic room exists the brainstorm.
Here the people
manage post-its and pop-ups and all...
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Will I ever be anybody’s muse?
No, I doubt not.
I am the woman with flour up her sleeves
pounding the weekday loaves.
Will I inspire my love to write a symphony?
Or climb a tree and spout cacophony?
No, I doubt not.
Instead,
I am the miller.
The painter, the layer,
between...
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