http://slow.writerscafe.org/AndrewGeary The original writings of author Andrew Geary en-us Copyright 2026 WritersCafe.org 1776048228 WritersCafe.org RSS Generator 15 A nothingness wrappedin mediocrity owns thiswall, owns your gaze.Mere sheets and hintsof printed words pinnedto immensity, slatheredin greater glumps of white,but the description makes itless as you learn the paintingsomehow representsthe communities fracturedby Eisenhower&rsqu.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/AndrewGeary/1463144/ A figure is flungby a bullet’s puncture.My nerves humwith the beauty of flyingcars. I don’t need ideas�"the suddenness of a buildingexploding is enough. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/AndrewGeary/1463141/ A thing that blossoms from the air:the air; nothing blossomsfrom you. The earth is itself, and fillsits own definition for the eyesto claim dominion overprogress. Cause-and-effect isn’tthe mind’s sculpture, but the universe’smovement to the self. The canvasisn&rsquo.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/AndrewGeary/1443117/ So, there is nothingthat can arise from thisexcept for the ultimateleveling: Maya Angelouand Wallace Stevens: equals,until opinion renderstheir worth.And the canvas coloredby Magritte’s vision is equalto a child’s fecal matterframed in a special place,until you.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/AndrewGeary/1443116/ Let’s look at Joe.A low darkness has taken the place of his home. We enter through the window, approach a door; it opens. A light hums here, revealing Joe standing over a sink. There is no mirror so we don’t know what he looks like�"we just know the back of his h.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/AndrewGeary/1443115/ Is present once againin his blackened room,hears songs in the trees.The window glows: the sunreaches all, and doesn’t careabout your comb-over.Darkness leaves the world,life refills the street:cars commuting, bodies shiftingacross concrete, passingfamiliar others. Em.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/AndrewGeary/1389260/ Peculiar life pushes into brown bodiesthat scrape the tile outside. A brittle leafis given action and moves toward the chairs,but then quiets. Another moment and the leaftumbles away from the shade. There is no lifeother than what the passing gust allows.No life there, just the wind’s pulling,.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/AndrewGeary/1389258/ The pit of hell eclipses the damnedtoilets in the mind of the lone security guard.He had informed the right peopleof the breath of feces spoiling the air,the spilling of porta-potties dampeningthe earth and a girl’s smelly shoes.But now a man onstage informs, “Um,there’s a fire&hel.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/AndrewGeary/1389257/ He shrinks to a hushbelow purple sky �" this air,soft and beckoning,carries a mute voicethat teethes at the brain, killingthe pull of his son’simage. Now two eyes,paled and tearing, watch the speckof light grow greaterthan the stars. His armsraise to the light like a babegrasp.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/AndrewGeary/1389256/ At six Grandpa’s hands were calloused.He leaped onto beaches, over wires,dying to meet evil’s swelling.Four brothers dead. He limpedto the factory for decades.Grandpa thrusts his rantfrom his achinglungs. Mother listensevery Christmasabout the War and hisglories.(Left in silence is .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/AndrewGeary/1286198/ Outside glows, snow sinksbetween grass bladesI catch a baseball.Priest pushes my handto know the candle’s flame.The red wick watches me fallinto the burning. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/AndrewGeary/1286188/ The sky is in a fit.The land whispersto the windto shutour flames.And when the sun returns,a few more will have to be buried.This isn’t our land. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/AndrewGeary/1286187/ There are no more stars--just the lights surroundingthis house. You’re heldby the inflated Santa,the reindeer still grazingthe powdered grass.You know the glow is justwires, yet you’ve returnedafter so many years.But Santa still doesn’t wavefor you. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/AndrewGeary/1247637/ She lost that light,the only thing that shonein Philipsburg, Montana. She’s been awayfor fifteen years, still remembers thembegging her to stay, but she leftto make herself into somethinggreat. Now, she isn’tthe star of any place, still waitingtables until lunch is over.Or maybe,she neve.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/AndrewGeary/1241015/ I worry about the husky gentlemanthat shot Lennon, not because I fearhe’ll come after me, but because he mightbe reading this poem. Some bad ideasare planted by words--their meaningsirrelevant to a brain saturatedby mania and lust. Yet, I still worrythat my innocent verse might form the fuelfo.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/AndrewGeary/1241013/ Death is blackenedby white roses orchestratingthe stage for grief.My father wrotethose three lines,before he died.Now I hear them,those lines, once moreas his fellows gather and museand drink about.He was a good mentor,a sensational man of letters--his passing is felt.But I’m the only one who .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/AndrewGeary/1241010/ She has to bethis idea--the assertive voice,the aggression and sass,the decking me twice(reason doesn’t matter)--because each movement is a defenseagainst becoming unseen. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/AndrewGeary/1241007/ http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/AndrewGeary/1241005/