I was sitting in a sun-drenched corner of a tiny bookstore in the French Quarter last Tuesday, trying to find the perfect rhythm for a new poem, when the sudden,…
I was sitting in a dusty corner of a local bookstore last Sunday, trying to rearrange some titles into a bit of "bookstore poetry," when the realization hit me like…
I remember sitting in a cramped, dimly lit corner of a French Quarter cafe years ago, the scent of chicory coffee thick in the air, trying to coax a poem…
I remember sitting in a dim, cramped corner of a jazz club in New Orleans, clutching a lukewarm drink and feeling like a ghost in a room full of living,…
I was sitting in a sun-drenched corner of a local bookstore yesterday, trying to arrange a few titles into a little poem, when the rhythm of my thoughts was shattered…
I remember sitting in a dimly lit corner of a French Quarter cafe, the scent of chicory coffee heavy in the air, staring at a crumpled receipt that felt more…
I was sitting in a dusty corner of a used bookstore in the French Quarter last Tuesday, rearranging a stack of poetry books to form a makeshift haiku, when I…
I remember sitting in a dim, rain-slicked cafe in the Marais, staring at a half-eaten croissant and the crushing weight of my own silence. The world outside was a frantic,…
I was sitting in a dim corner of a local jazz club last week, listening to a saxophonist try to force a complex bebop solo over a drummer who couldn't…
The scent of overripe citrus and damp compost hit me like a discordant minor chord back when I was staging plays in the French Quarter. I remember standing behind a…