SELF LOVE GAME BY SHELBY REID 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 73
SANDBOX BY RINA RICH LANGER 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 73
FOR WHOM THE LACK OF TIME IS A CONVENIENCE BY TONI ST JOHN 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 73
In the summer there was nothing to do but move slowly and sit under sprinklers. Nobody made music in the summer and the poetry was unoriginal.
The days were longer and somehow felt useless under the boot of a heavy sun.
Sometimes we broke into coffee shop garden patios after hours to read Bukowski or sketch abstract figures for our poems. Literature made us resent our own time, as transients from a Golden Age that could only be revisited through the prose of an honest writer. Often a dead writer.
I would sit on the Capitol rose garden lawn cross-legged, hoping to hear an echo of the winter rallying cries of protest. Protests were the sort of passion you missed in the summer when everybody was too hot to be passionate about anything at all.
Nobody was an artist and even poets found it wrong to write about our months of summer.
In the dread of a season that often held us prisoner to heatwaves and the most unromantic dehydrations, there were idyllic memories.