Morning, lousy weather
out of coffee, computer on the blink,
none the existential less
consciousness prevails
and it’s story-writing time
synapses and psyche insist
the momentum of being
does not take no or nonsense
for an answer
I wonder if it will be a long story
full of twists and turns
and enough sex to get me in trouble
or a short story
with several exalted subplots
and characters admirable
I wonder if this will be a trip
through the underworld
or through clouds
half symbolic and half frightening
I wonder if I will live
another minute
or a decade of monstrous
uncertainty and pitfalls
I wonder about wonder
and put down my pen
as if it were a weapon
or a prehistoric beast
hungry for anything
that moves.
More from Issue #1
Son of a Bitch by J.D. Isip
Five dollars, mama, he’d say and, because it was cheaper than wondering why, you gave it. Then ten. Then twenty. I did the best I could, you’d say and, because that seemed…
Filipino Food by J.D. Isip
We leave the head on, bones to pick out; eating can be a chore, so many utensils so we go without fingers like kung-fu (but we’re not that kind of Asian) scoop…
Not a Favorable Morning for Questions and Answers by J. J. Steinfeld
The individual clouds on a most cloudy morning began speaking to each other not very loud but loud enough for me to hear and shake my head at in a rite resembling…
Vomit by J.D. Isip
It wasn’t, of course. That sour, rusty odor sent coworkers, us, tipping trashcans, sniffing at counters, at the air, wide-eyed like deer so sure death is crouching in that scent. After two…