The lane makes a bottleneck. We have a name for the narrow isthmus; we forgot that; perhaps the lane’s purpose is to pour the world into the house at the end, No. One hundred and ten. I desire to apprehend if you still live there, keep the books you borrowed from me decades ago on an evening remembered for hidden feelings, fog muffled streetlights casting unstable shadows of us on my celadon wall. My mother coughed and coughed as you depart. I recall you bent, hands fisted, books in your tote. You didn’t acknowledge that you would not return, no one could. We stopped and watch a starling caught in the orange cat’s maw. The cat spoke with its mouth full. I didn’t know the tongue.
The author of Postmarked Quarantine has eight books to his credit. He is a journalist, father, and the editor of ‘Words Surfacing’. His works have been translated into twelve languages, published across the globe. Twitter- https://twitter.com/Kushalpoe
it rained last night and through a cloud of aromatic steam i look at the tree tops from her porch as i sip my coffee and listen to the delicate savagery of birds in the morning.
i like it.
soon though a static wave of disquieting, obsessive compulsion and indoctrinated, brainwashed, plebeian adherence will rise with the sun and the coming day; vexed, as if some specter’s trained dog, so too will their slumbering cars be awake, and what’s left of the deteriorated arboreal beauty and beleaguered atmospheric global balance that once was will be laid siege to; yielding terrestrially yet again, its’ crude essence, to those countless self-perplexed, ego driven, vehicular, asphalt distractions stuck between the imperialistic, pneumatic breath and billowing exhaust of churlish, multinational, corporate verbosity and the militaristic threat of a towering, particle smashing, sub-atomic, bathtub crank, bio-engineered, mega-death tally.
determined, to meet head on this apocalyptic ultra comic book existence from her bed, i turn to go back inside, whereupon, i spy a small rabbit crying out from the mouth of a calico trotting up the alley, next to the house. it stops for a moment… they both look at me, in silence.., then it turns and moves on with that poor desperate bastard firmly in its jaws, kicking its unfortunate little feet and screaming once again to no avail. so should life be, i thought, but it’s worse than that.
in this time of great social upheaval, a looming economic catastrophe and a civilization, along with all traces of humanity, teetering on the brink of extinction, comes this ill-mannered knucklehead, Gerard Padron, an american poet, on the ground, who writes under the pseudonym Botched Resignation. like many of the oxymoronic, idiosyncratic writers of his day, he is a lover of women, hero to children and champion of the poor. Botched Resignation is everything that is disdainfully fashionable. just ask him. he drinks heavily when he can and can’t dance. as to the many things which have been said about his personage, one cannot expect everybody to be as bright, clever, and optimistic, as they are self-assured and talented.
from the hypocritical top down, the collusive heads of every department on the globe, have insisted that everything we do, must be… from this point forward.., state of the art… fuck’em… it is not as though Botched Resignation, has not sent notice. the village idiot, elevated a tremendous fool, Botched Resignation is The Venomous Dog of the House of Padron / High Chancellor of the Witless, the Ardent and the Tawdry, who that on more than one occasion, has been mistaken for Jesus, and declared a much smarter man by more than just a few staggering drunks.
an inebriated rogue, inspecting from head to foot, an intoxicated, duplicitous, secular pride, he is his own worst enemy. on the field of poetic contention, Botched Resignation has no rival, no job, no money and no prospects. none. he is the point and shaft of an elegiac spear, as well as the archetype who wields it. however, odds are, up against it he can never hope to win and doesn’t give a damn.
Will Mayo is the author of Dreams Of Mongolia, Hoodoo Voodoo, The Shells Encasing Our Nothingness, Bone Talking, and other books of the extraordinary. He lives with his six-toed black cat in Frederick, Maryland, said by some to be the most haunted city in the state. Most of his writing is done between the hours of 3 a.m. and sunrise. He enjoys wordplay and strange tales, and hopes you do too.
