In the card games, I am usually quick to fold, so I can sit back and watch the others. I mean watch their idiosyncrasies on display. What I think of as their “nonsense”.
Roger Boylan, ed., The Diary of Darius William Dunne.
“I’m telling you Angie, if that is poetry I will swallow a sock. Right now. But you say that Dylan calls it poetry. Well okay then, I suppose it must be so. After all, who could possibly know better than that little weasel?”
Angela Unseld, ed., Letters from Uncle Hal.
The Ledger of Wheel and Woe.
Andrew Tertullian, Pandora’s Ponderous Puns.
“Those Indians, they will hide under your bed,” warned Old Man Davy. “And they will wait, patiently, for you to fall asleep. And then they will inch their way out, and they will stand over you, and stare down at you in the darkness. And that’s all bad enough. But then they will take out their hatchet, and they will scalp you! And that is why young boys should never fall asleep.”
Miles Bantry, ed., Mr. Roode’s Rustic Tales.
“Do not offer advice, Desmond. Not ever. Not to anyone, at any time. Not a soul!”
Chase Tipton, Enjoying Prison Pizza.
He tried hard,
He tried soft.
He sits now, sulking,
In a loft.
E. E. Bynum, A Thump on the Head (and Other Poems).
“I don’t want anything, Carla. Do you hear me? I do not want.”
Allison Cowling, Night of the Detective.
Edgar was never quite able to make contact—at least not consistently—with what Mr. Cathcart often referred to as the “firmness” of reality.
Nicholas Bruhns, Otto the Magpie.
“He soon became fascinated—maybe even obsessed—with that thing I was telling you about, Reggie. That ‘property’ of the numeral three.”
Hollis Beddoes, Counting the Magpies.
Cook up sausage in
a frying pan, listen to
music of Manfred Mann.
Visit a storefront
and buy a tan, then scrub your
world till it’s spic and span.
E. E. Bynum, A Thump upon the Head (and Other Poems).
dennis scharnberg 