Previously published in Yellow Medicine Review The dreamt-of people are more numerous than us. But take no space… They gather around me,
shimmering the air, recalling for me the days and people past. Mostly, when they remember, it's simple; strong brewed coffee, lilacs in bloom, just cut grass, wet leaves in fall, or thunder during a summer's morning storm. Sometimes, though, it's more complicated, because they have their own dreamt-of people; It's like looking into a mirror, into another, and again, again, again. They recall for me those people whose endings were retold in newspapers tucked into Mom's hand-stitched leather purse, the one she kept hidden in her closet away from prying child eyes. Or they recall for me those people whose stories were placed in Grandma's scrapbook where every misfortune that fell upon her small town were gathered together in yellowed pages bound with a delicate cord. When it's like that, to hide their sadness, they laugh and drink in remembrance, just like we do, and clink their glasses over my head. I duck– dream shards raining upon me.
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Previously Published in Haunted Waters Press
Crazy Love Walking after midnight with a man barely known, it was a crazy love, a Patsy Cline song played to life in the well-worn Gateway District. Their chance encounter in the skid-row hotel hallway, and I became their records' scratch. It was the late 50s, and they did what was expected, what was supposed to be right. There was a single room overlooking the train depot and she tried to calm the baby through the rumble of the evening's Empire Builder. But the Seagram's 7 sign flashed throughout the nights, and maybe that pulsing whiskey light ruined her blood. It ran through a vein of thirst, nearly under control until it wasn't, and then they just did whatever they could.
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Gail WawrzyniakRegardless of the genre of art, the artist is sharing an emotion, a thought, a story. I find the stories in others' art and use them to create my own. Archives
July 2015
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