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Poof* Take MY water

Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends writing

drowning alice

only two things in my sphere
are meticulously kept

my sock drawer
and my book shelves

the socks are a fetish
but the book collection
is an archive of my life

i’ve lost count of the numbers
but it’s more than a thousand

volumes lining the walls
with secrets and keepsakes tucked inside

photographs, autographs
playbills, museum pamphlets,
bits of painted canvas cut into bookmarks,
pressed flowers
and prayer cards

i had finished reading a book overnight
so there i sat before my altar once again
seeking an instrument of destruction

that’s when i heard gertrude stein mumbling
about tender buttons
objects, food, and rooms analyzed
on the third shelf down
two partitions from the right

it’s a copy acquired from a used bookstore
i like to think of it as a means of rescue

i discovered this particular book
was originally sold
at the miami university of oxford’s
student book store

to my delight i see
the entire volume is filled
with painstaking highlights
in blue, green, and orange
and droll, unprofound notes
angrily scribbled in the margins

this student truly hated a run on sentence
it messed with his mind
breaking those rules
prose poetry just didn’t suit this kid
i knew it was a “him” because the commentary and hand writing were
distinctly male in nature

he hated this book
he hated dikey gertrude stein

but the real kick in the taint came
when i saw he had scratched
the professor’s name
the section number
and the course
inside the front cover

the name of a professor
i had quite recently fucked
with the same enthusiasm
as this downtrodden student
who had taken his class

henry j. fate, PhD

a torrent of life-coming-full-circle-laughter
rose to my office rafters

drowning alice b. toklas

romantic notions of dying in paris in 1946

the thoughts of impotent readers

and a century of useless literary discourse

Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends


you know a town is uptight
when even the poets don’t applaud each other
at poetry readings
all except the ones who migrate from the south
who brought their balls and graciousness
across the river with them