No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story. It's Just One Planet. But There Are Many Stories.
I write sporadically. The work-life-hobby harmony of a restaurateur is prone to disruption. One recent novel was completed in bursts that bordered on the spasmic. It’s currently being ignored by at least a dozen agents; I keep chopping it up and frankensteining it together in the shadows while I wait.
Placed in the West Village, Horatio Street is the heart of the village, uniting the Meatpacking District and Chelsea. A glamorous address among the downtown scene, Horatio Street boasts historic addresses, great shopping, and beautiful scenery. The legendary novelist, critic, and activist James Baldwin lived at 81 Horatio Street, which inspired his pioneering novel Another Country.
Was it fate that an hour ago I saw you squeeze your Peugeot into a tight parking space on the narrow cobblestone street? You, dear young woman, dressed in a slinky green metallic dress with slinky gold sandals, holding a bouquet of flowers. You, dear young man, dressed for a summer evening out on the town in crisp slacks and button-down shirt, carrying a bottle of wine. It’s likely you were headed for a friend’s flat when I asked you, “Do you speak English?” You said you did, but you really didn’t.
We just need some new nouns, some polished up verbs, and a stronger pair of boots.
My brother and I never really understood why he, who never entered the lounge during the academic school year, and rarely spoke with other faculty outside of the routine exchanges related to his job, took this pre-semester period to visit the lounge, and engage in idle chatter with its small group of self-anointed members composed of senior faculty who perceived access to the lounge as a perk for their many years of employment;
Gold Medal
What do you think on that podium you’ve worked all your life to mount...