Where all sorts of contest entries of 2020 come together, short story and poetry. |
Welcome to my entries of poetry, short stories, of all different ways of writing... ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** And, my poetry Lair, as of March 2017 + MARCH 2020 ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** For Cinn "Pursue the Horizon - Open for Signups" |
Jet BY TONY HOAGLAND Sometimes I wish I were still out on the back porch, drinking jet fuel with the boys, getting louder and louder as the empty cans drop out of our paws like booster rockets falling back to Earth and we soar up into the summer stars. Summer. The big sky river rushes overhead, bearing asteroids and mist, blind fish and old space suits with skeletons inside. On Earth, men celebrate their hairiness, and it is good, a way of letting life out of the box, uncapping the bottle to let the effervescence gush through the narrow, usually constricted neck. And now the crickets plug in their appliances in unison, and then the fireflies flash dots and dashes in the grass, like punctuation for the labyrinthine, untrue tales of sex someone is telling in the dark, though no one really hears. We gaze into the night as if remembering the bright unbroken planet we once came from, to which we will never be permitted to return. We are amazed how hurt we are. We would give anything for what we have. Love this part: and it is good, a way of letting life out of the box, uncapping the bottle to let the effervescence gush through the narrow, usually constricted neck. You can feel it, can't you? That uncorking the bottle, the feel of it almost sighing in response to the release of pressure, going through that narrow, constricted neck. Bringing it to your lips, is it sweating? Is it slightly warmed? Is it incredibly chilled? Than the sounds all around you, the crickets, fireflies flashing their little lights and mating signs. It feels like a July day. |