http://slow.writerscafe.org/miss_missa07 The original writings of author miss_missa07 en-us Copyright 2026 WritersCafe.org 1776245747 WritersCafe.org RSS Generator 15 “I” is onlya convenient term for somebody who has no real being. --VirginiaWoolf, A Room of One’s Own Three weeksago we downed Bacardifrom acrossthe bar; drowned in the warmth of stickysweet ignorance. Eyes bloodshot from doingshots, we clos.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/miss_missa07/713346/ There is nowhisper in the wind--it howlsmore than Ginsberg,like a packleader at a fully-risen moon.Raindropsturn to sleet and hitwindows inno predictable rhythm,but likemallets hitting steel marimbas.We watch asthe sky turns green,turnsclouds into circles .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/miss_missa07/713343/ Thecharcoal of pavement contrasts bright orangeas blackbleeds into bleak gravel.A fallenangel-straddling heaven and hell-brokenantenna fail to hold up the haloand decayedwings catch air through holes,flutteringin the chill of wind.These wingsonce fluttered over .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/miss_missa07/713342/ Hestraggles down the empty street,past homeswith broken windows, missing doors.The newly-risenmoon casts light across alleywaysWhere ratsfeast on rank corpses,--putrid dogs and cats, starved to deathwhen their owners went missing.The hungry rats get their revenge... http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/miss_missa07/713340/ I saw your body navigate the congested concrete street,the pills that you ingested (one by one)stacked high upon your chest like pancakes.They were little white daggers of insomnia,broken at the hilt and jammed into your shell.The dagger may have pierced the skin,but it could.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/miss_missa07/713338/ Her eyes were as big as the moon,so when she gathered flowers,hugged closely in the bosom of a tree,her tears created a crystal lake,which reflected the moonlight like a spoon,bending and refracting the beamslike freshly-plucked harp strings. She noticed the spar.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/miss_missa07/713328/ Tie astring around my ankles;Tie ittight, grip it well, and run.I will bumpalong the ground,but, likeMarylin Monroe’s,my skirtwill catch air.When thestrings grow taught, toss meinto the atmosphere.My skirtwill billow, swallow me,andparachute me.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/miss_missa07/713327/ I worship a God who resides in the splatter of raindrops.He hits the ground in an insignificant splash, trickles along the crevices of empty sidewalks.He settles into etched-in-names of hard concrete. I filled a needle with puddle water seeped into a heartthat was etched.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/miss_missa07/713326/ We hide behind sheer, wafting curtainsuntil all that remains are our silhouettes.Without the clarity of faded scarsno one can see our regret. Ready to risk a [certain] curtain fire,we search pockets for unlit cigarettes.Smoke and smoldering ash can bethe easiest .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/miss_missa07/713325/ An experiment with form, this poem differs from my more typical writings. It was a good exercise, though I'm interested to know if other people find it effective or not. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/miss_missa07/713323/ God makes us wear his sunshine aboveour waists;Tailor-sewn lines draw up thecorners of our lips.On our best days we play charades,masking our truths and parading ourfakes,simply given a paper with our wordof the day(Be it “happy,” “gracious,” &ldqu.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/miss_missa07/713322/