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THAT SATURDAY

 

it was 6:30 p.m.

you could taste the scent

of burning leaves coming in

from our back door wide open

I went to shut it –

that 4’x7′ wooden recipient of

my most delicious anger

\ when I saw an antigrav pod flyby low

and I said outloud

NOW WHAT

are strike drones next?

 

two hours later

I’m standing in the livingroom

over the broken / not so great to begin with

plastic dollar store lamp we bought

on that rainy sad  say nothing to each other Saturday…

\ then pellmell !

Antonia runs up in front – right arm extended

stiletto stabs fast

seven short words straight to my heart

I fall hard on the floor

cry uncontrollably                   ceiling spins

doorbell rings

she opens

in walks my slightly older self

\ looks me in the face

and laughs

 

                                                                   copyright2015

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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About a. edward watkins

With the exception of 2 years study of western music theory and harmony- I am a self taught percussionist, writer and abstract painter. Not your drummer boy drummer - not your writerly writer nor the painterly painter. Creativity is an integral aspect of my existence - as it is for us all - in some form or another. My experiences in life have informed and shaped my world view profoundly. I am the disrupter - the never quite satisfied - the relentless creator of word, sound and image. I question the answers and question the questions.

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