By: Jack Conway We are all shipwrecked one time, or another trying to get back home longing for revenge hoping there will be leftovers from the feast, at least and someone who might remember us. I find myself cheering on the poor Cyclops, Polyphemus, wishing he had not been taken in so easily, blinded by Nobody. How foolish we have become, thinking love is a voice in the darkness. For the love of Poseidon pipe down! Only the sea saw, the one eye love. By: Jack Conway I sit correcting papers at the sturdy Shaker table, stacking stacks of them in some elaborate battle plan; red pens, scattered like spent soldiers, casualties of this long war of words. I move the red pen to where transitive verbs carry you from here to there, marking how you've gone from active to passive voice, noting where first person slips to third and present tense to past. You only have a first draft; and, there can never be enough conjunctions to connect us to the things of this world. In the stacks I've stashed your obit. I pencil out your name. |