Tonight's Poet Corner: Percussive Experience
Percussive Experience by Belinda Roddie September night, all alone in a space that holds gold in some places and silver in others - my brother's downstairs, my pant legs are covered in hair from my cat. He's a little fat, but mighty and majestic, though he thought it best if he stayed somewhere else while I pull copious volumes off the shelves before turning to my keys, please. And I'm suddenly reminded of evenings and greetings and weavings of people in a coffee shop, where our lips popped and our teeth knocked out fiction by the clock above our heads. Storytelling's dead? Not so, my friends, it's not the end of pages or ages, or staring into the faces of people who lose sleep over chapters and segments and fragments of some sort of beatdown memory breathing bleeding thoughts into their wood-notched skulls. The pen is mightier than the bone used to sign a will or the sentence of the abused in a dusty courtroom. We had short st...