[view part 1] ( cont.) "Anyway, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock is an interior monologue," said the officer, finishing his balogna sandwich and washing it down with dark rum. Wiping mustard … [Read More...]
About Robert Sward
I began writing poetry in Chicago at age 15, when I was named corresponding secretary for a gang of young punks and hoodlums called the Semcoes. A Social Athletic Club, we met at various locations two Thursdays a month. My job was to write postcards to inform my brother thugs–who carried switchblade knives and stole cars for fun and profit–as to when, where and why we were meeting.
Evanescene. Doty writes movingly, beyond movingly... about the death of his partner, Wally, from AIDS. "How can you hide, wrote Heraclitus, from what never goes away? Death is always … [Read More...]
Love Has Made Grief AbsurdA tragi-comedy, a monologue in the voice of a SF Bay Area artist as she struggles with the gradual loss of her faculties and, indeed, the loss of “herself” as she continues to live her life and create art. Purchasable Soon
Her third eye is strawberry jam
has a little iris in it
and the milk
has gone down
the wrong way.
I’ve just had breakfast
with the smallest person in the world.