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Published 8 years ago by kdawson with 0 Comments

Position Report

An experiment in creative non-fiction prose poems.

  • Years after the bankruptcy, somewhat after the divorce the writer was standing in the express land of a supermarket when a lady he knew only slightly said, I hear you’re writing a novel.

    At the time he was writing, not sure if it was a novel or not, but in any case not talking about it. He used to talk about writing a lot, but never got any done. Now writing again, he never mentioned it and had no idea how this lady knew, but he was living in a small town where people of vague acquaintance would speak of secrets they shouldn’t know.

    He was holding, as he stood in the express lane, a baby who’s first name was the same as his and who was no relation to him at all: the writer’s mother’s step grandson from a step daughter who’d been adopted in the first place. The baby’s mother wouldn’t take care of him, the writer’s mother couldn’t so he ended up holding this baby in the supermarket express lane while the son of his blood, object of his adoration, lived thousands of miles away with a woman who periodically sent the writer long letters detailing exactly how much she hated him.

    This is how life served him and is it any wonder that he’s often confused and squints a lot?

 

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