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One day, when time stopped running,
I saw the plain frame and silver threads
suspended like a gentle wind
above the breathing horizon of lost origins.
I sipped frequencies from the air,
as though I could gather them
into fragmented mosaics.

The Tower of Babel of misunderstanding
melted into a single vivid image
composed of scattered syllables.
I found myself on the margin of a notebook
coincidence, or a sense of density?

No one will change the flow of a rushing river.
Everything has been planned.
Who will take away dreams?
Symbols, premonitions?

All that I remember from
The future still lives in my skin.
The rest are only fears and mistakes,
The choices never taken,
The ones that carry me here.
I try to catch the present
returning to inevitability.
Its running away is the reason
I’m still breathing.
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Dispatches for the Colonial Office

                               Everyone Has Advice for Writers


      There is a man…hangs odes upon hawthorns and elegies on        
       brambles…

                                      -As You Like It, III.ii.377-380


Who is your target audience, they ask

A pair of clevers on the telescreen
Giving their audience suggestions for publication
Ideas for making it on the writing scene:
“Target audience” is their incantation

Who is your target audience?

Is your target moving or stationary?
A paper bullseye or something edible
An enemy, a thing, an adversary
A carnivore’s luncheon spreadable?

Who is your target audience?

But a reader is not a target
She is not the object of your life -
She is the subject of her own

Respect your reader

Respect
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