This is slightly adapted from a post I wrote upon leaving Open Salon. Its inspiration is Anatevka from Fiddler on the Roof - see following link for the original, without which this post will make no sense. Goldene Medina is Yiddish for “Golden Land,” how Jews in the Shtetl (in Europe where Yiddish was spoken) referred to America, as in “the streets are paved with gold.”Continue
Added by koshersalaami on May 25, 2019 at 6:30am — No Comments
At once the sunshower well on its way east, the wet greens of ensuant summer thought: y'am.
Barefoot K.D.Lang soulfully sang Hallelujah...
Badgerland blessed by soft breeze, Gulf of Mexico perfect winds danced the serene drops upon elicit final
astonished magnolia, a warm wash of peace.
The yearling nuzzled alert with monifique tranquility.
She saw me and kept her eye on hunger.
ICAN the acronym spoke the watch, wait, mine…Continue
Perhaps you might not know, yet, that my Mother married a Marine Corps vet. My mother had got to URI, and wound up, knocked up, by this guy. She was eighteen, he was twenty three...the rest they say, is history.
She was already a tough, Rhode Island Red, a rebel, before they wed. He was no match for her in the field ; The Little Rhodey was as tall as him, but damaged goods, deep within.
I was one of the six she bore, before, they…Continue
Added by Doc Vega on May 11, 2019 at 7:49am — No Comments
near the crystal
a feather tip
sting of flight
dove would be
the lyric not
often seen over the city as though an angel.
We added memory, obeyed instructions naively, knowing of his departure. You mightily shall crane your neck at the night, watching for a sign. Dreams are sharp slo-mo subtle noise: awake awake awake he doth whisper, to you alone. Dispel romance from the fight. They knew. Project lethargic, the discarded dissertation; when did that enter the conversation? Succinctly expose it other than the big bang. Like postage stamps bound and glassed.…Continue
& this to a culture that yet has hidden land ordnance in Laos, all these thoughts:
vertical leapt the fox, a digit and code misaligned, candle smudged no doubt by hard night rain, that uniformed man to pick up the wooden box. Would there be pissants on the vine, how would Billy Faulkner Jimmie Mitchell and little boy handle the ashes to ashes, dust to dust, the barefoot damsels all burgundy squished about the toes, but no more to walk alone, hands above…
Waiting for the hammer to come down
Living my life like a clown
And you wonder why I wear a…
Added by Doc Vega on April 30, 2019 at 1:30pm — No Comments
The Devil’s Way
Don’t take no…Continue
Added by Doc Vega on April 27, 2019 at 11:30am — No Comments
I'd provided everything for you.
You've juices enough for four people, and even from this quiet place I
hear that microwave prompting you like a garbage truck reversing.
I'd planted orchards for us and watched from my hill as swords slashed
and maimed through the…Continue
There would be a rock, a quiet kind, painted with a heart and names enchanted. So where are they? Who said stop the illegal bombing in Cambodia? That mantra over nicotine haze? Thousands of cocktail glasses on round trays, momentarily silent? Half beer barrels carted and pierced, a cacophonous ritual, like limitless buckets of ice, they listened and he did not speak, he flew; his were good business shoes at one time. Open toe hop-along cassidy…Continue
Added by Doc Vega on April 18, 2019 at 12:30am — No Comments