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| "Tracings" by Sandy Beach "The Seer on the Wooden Pillar" by Paul Belz "The World Made from Cacophany" by Paul Belz "Unrequited" by John Birkbeck "Silence" by Curtis Church "In Paradise" by Rosemarie Crisafi "Just a Walk in the Park" by F. Anthony D'Alessandro "Columbus Circle Crooner" by F. Anthony D'Alessandro "Lobster Duck" by F. Anthony D'Alessandro "Floppy Hair in Sunset Years" by F. Anthony D'Alessandro "Logarithms" by Tony D'Arpino "Lila" by Adriana DiGennaro "A Year of Mourning" by Ruth Dombrow "Conversations with a Naked Ascetic" by Alison Eastley "The Book of Scorpio" by Alison Eastley "Cloud Formations" by Rich Ives "Infancy" by Edith Kur "Hunt, 1831" by Joanne Lowery "Cold Turkey" by Joanne Lowery "Clark Gable as Muse" by Joanne Lowery "Accident in 16 Parts" by Joanne Lowery "Little Pears" by Joanne Lowery "After We Bought a Computer in 1996" by Shawn McLain "Seven Blind Men and the Elephant" by Ram Mehta "What I Want" by Corey Mesler "Stagnation" by Samia Ouederni "On The Walls:" by Marissa Ranello "Urban Cycle" by Marissa Ranello "Midnight Shift" by Cortny Riblett "Thief" by Cortny Riblett "When the Beach is Mine Alone" by Harding Stedler "Enter Stage Left" by Harding Stedler "Superman and Darlene Smith" by Deborah Stinson "Per-millennial Skyline" by Elizabeth Kate Switaj "Under the Umbrella" by Sara Toruno |
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| Floppy Hair in Sunset Years |
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| The floppy hair looked familiar, triggering memories as I drove by.
That undulating, tufted hair filled the teen me with jealousy. I sarcastically referred to the man as Mr. Mop since my hair failed the "bounce" test. Yes, I preferred that bouncy fluff to that matting of wool planted on my head. Mr. Mop crossed my path on my drive from college during my acne challenged days. A smile now glides across my face at this unplanned reunion moment. Today's miscalculated turn reintroduced me to Mr. Mop. Still flopping? Barely. Interrupted flopping now, like a half empty com poem field in a wind storm. No longer as hirsute, shorn by the frivolous pages of the calendar. Mop's remaining hair, clings in desperation, whitewashed now like the white picket fence embracing his yard. Reaching for my loyal steel wool hair, still dripping in ebony, past jealousy deserts me. Now, it seems so meaningless, like it never existed. Millennium Mop leaned on his shillelagh unable to totally unwrinkle his body and stand parochial school straight. Still stooped, he raised his left hand in a sort of informal salute to the unblemished sky, While choking a garden hose in that same hand, he pointed the hose moonward, suffocating every in range plant with his modest flood. Funny, I don't remember these plants getting so much attention during his fleecier days. To his right stood a rust colored and clanky basketball hoop, Wild grass crept over its cement toes, while interloping wasps commandeered free housing in the penthouse comers of the basketball rim. Industrial orange blanketed the tired metal parts. Last time I passed here, news of Berlin's odious Wall crumble saturated the air waves. I reminisced about the springtime version of the Mr. Mop replaying on that historic day. The same mop, same man, dribbling his ball basketward as pre teeners failed to slow his bullying path toward the basket. No sprinkling hoses then, no plants to be deluged. No, not hoses, instead tykes of 10 to12 years, tugging at his arms and shirt. The ghosts of an upbeat children's concerto yanked his arms, tugged at his jersey as he attempted to launch the basketball. That contagious laughter rumbled and infiltrated my sealed Studebaker. The garden looked after itself, self sufficient then. Strange how the pushy hands of time, replete with its unending volley of practical jokes and trickery repaints the human canvas and reshapes all remaining to be plowed in her determined path. The barren garden of decades past now flourishes like an oasis. Mr. Mop's cement court is pinned under ringlets of invading weeds, while the leader stands devoid of followers, hair, and his past trappings of leadership. The orange peeled backboard sheds more than a seasoned dog in July, and children are now so alien to the yard that radar is required to discover the closest one. All that remains are a few strands of silky hair, a wrinkled, exhaling basketball, and a stooped man with a pained smile and a full heart. |
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