Brexit in American English in 60 words or less
fiction
edward w pritchard
It's Democracy run a muck, the uneducated rabble have the majority again and the factional irrational voting mistakes that American President James Madison feared in the " Federalist paper" # 10 have occurred; what's next the nihilist vote electing Donald Trump to end the World as we know it?
Haven't we learned anything from The Greek city state's experiences with Demokratia?
Friday, June 24, 2016
Thursday, June 23, 2016
alienation and the big celebration about winning the basketball championship
alienation and the big celebration about winning the basketball championship
fiction
edward w pritchard
Alienation is a hollow chest and a missing heart. No one hands a dripping umbrella to you after a sudden spring rainstorm and leaning shining jet black umbrellas never leave glistening slick puddles of welcoming warm rainfall across villages near the tributaries of fertile river valleys. The flowers don't grow at night and the vines that hang over a hundred foot from the leaning collapsing trees were born by spontaneous generation beginning to droop and die before they were randomly created.
Alienation is over a million people not going to the big celebration about winning the basketball championship and no one buying to save the memorial newspaper about the once in the lifetime victory over the up state rivals.
Alienation is a hollow heart and a whirlwind inside the chest from the sound of raindrops at four AM on the rusting car. Alienation is no blanket across the shoulders during a freezing Spring while watching the buffalo disappear and the iron horse race coast to coast after the time is gone and the Place is missing. Alienation is holes in the barb wire fences that tear and scar delicate skin and jolt the forgetting of unrecorded occurrences by unknown descendants.
fiction
edward w pritchard
Alienation is a hollow chest and a missing heart. No one hands a dripping umbrella to you after a sudden spring rainstorm and leaning shining jet black umbrellas never leave glistening slick puddles of welcoming warm rainfall across villages near the tributaries of fertile river valleys. The flowers don't grow at night and the vines that hang over a hundred foot from the leaning collapsing trees were born by spontaneous generation beginning to droop and die before they were randomly created.
Alienation is over a million people not going to the big celebration about winning the basketball championship and no one buying to save the memorial newspaper about the once in the lifetime victory over the up state rivals.
Alienation is a hollow heart and a whirlwind inside the chest from the sound of raindrops at four AM on the rusting car. Alienation is no blanket across the shoulders during a freezing Spring while watching the buffalo disappear and the iron horse race coast to coast after the time is gone and the Place is missing. Alienation is holes in the barb wire fences that tear and scar delicate skin and jolt the forgetting of unrecorded occurrences by unknown descendants.
Friday, June 17, 2016
facing a dying nation
facing a dying nation
fiction
edward w pritchard
"Hair, let the sunshine" in the Broadway play was a sort of anthem for the baby boomers, at least it was for a while then in 1969 when Treat Williams marching in the Broadway play dressed as a soldier in an endless row of Men in green military uniform sang about "facing a dying nation" and the real possibility of dying before your allotted time in the Vietnam War seemed pressing, absurd and senseless. Now a half century later 75 million baby boomers face the certainly of dying in the next 30 years. That's a quarter of the US population who will be passed on within moderate period of time.
Tonight the Moon is nearly full and the red planet Mars is near the Moon in the sky. One feels looking up at the Moon and Mars that one has witnessed the two Heavenly bodies before a few hundred life times ago. The Moon going to full in the night sky is one of those racial memories that is just out of the reach of our collective recollection.
Our sojourn on Earth is so brief. It's over before we become fully oriented in Time and space.
Clutch your possessions tightly to your side tonight under the nearly full Moon. What do you believe in and where did your allotted Time go?
fiction
edward w pritchard
"Hair, let the sunshine" in the Broadway play was a sort of anthem for the baby boomers, at least it was for a while then in 1969 when Treat Williams marching in the Broadway play dressed as a soldier in an endless row of Men in green military uniform sang about "facing a dying nation" and the real possibility of dying before your allotted time in the Vietnam War seemed pressing, absurd and senseless. Now a half century later 75 million baby boomers face the certainly of dying in the next 30 years. That's a quarter of the US population who will be passed on within moderate period of time.
Tonight the Moon is nearly full and the red planet Mars is near the Moon in the sky. One feels looking up at the Moon and Mars that one has witnessed the two Heavenly bodies before a few hundred life times ago. The Moon going to full in the night sky is one of those racial memories that is just out of the reach of our collective recollection.
Our sojourn on Earth is so brief. It's over before we become fully oriented in Time and space.
Clutch your possessions tightly to your side tonight under the nearly full Moon. What do you believe in and where did your allotted Time go?
Thursday, June 16, 2016
dead flowers
dead flowers
fiction
edward w pritchard
The exquisite Chinese vase is intact but the purple and yellow flowers inside are all dead. Victims of a divorce: the purple and yellow flowers still stuck atop the crammed hole of the erect porcelain vase, the environment below devoid of life the flowers above bleeding away the vitality that once sustained the union.
Hand painted with a delicate rose colored bouquet in an oval on it's front the vase endures, a funeral urn to the purple and yellow flowers that once seemed so real; now dead, dormant, and stuck withering blue as the colors fade to black.
fiction
edward w pritchard
The exquisite Chinese vase is intact but the purple and yellow flowers inside are all dead. Victims of a divorce: the purple and yellow flowers still stuck atop the crammed hole of the erect porcelain vase, the environment below devoid of life the flowers above bleeding away the vitality that once sustained the union.
Hand painted with a delicate rose colored bouquet in an oval on it's front the vase endures, a funeral urn to the purple and yellow flowers that once seemed so real; now dead, dormant, and stuck withering blue as the colors fade to black.
Friday, June 10, 2016
life ascendant
life ascendant
fiction
edward w pritchard
The cold water is full of chemicals and limes and rusts seeping from deep underground pools of slushy industrial wastes from back when Barberton was on the ascendancy into the industrial revolution becoming the match making center of this part of the border to the emerging Western sections of the nascent United States. That crusty polluted rusty waters flowed West draining all the Portage Lakes flowing quickly after a once a century flash flood through the wide open Locks into a deluge down the rejuvenated Tuscawarus river across the mushy ancient graves of old Indian chief Captain Pipe and his sad lonely squaws and extinct Indians who lived in the Indian villages of Pipetown and three or four other Indian burrows and villages near sunny Nesbitt Lake.
Somehow life began anew from all those industrial pollutants and solvents oozing again and again over those extinct Indian graves and bones mixing with the rusts and irons and vitamins from the bleached soggy body parts and skins and Indian babies began to grow and thrive there in the rich vucousy muck thriving in silence, maturing without Mothers or fathers into good sturdy specimens becoming solid american citizens ready to work and consume and incidentally revitalize the Cleveland-akron-canton MSA into the 22nd century.
Good jobs are important for the Indians [ called hereafter native american] babies born without Mothers or fathers seeded and hatched from the muddy pollutants of nineteenth century american Industrial growth. When next shopping at the local dollar store give that weary, tired but pretty cashier with the high cheekbones a nod: she well could be a descendant of Old Captain Pipe the Indian chief who founded civilization here in the greater Cleveland Lake Erie basin.
fiction
edward w pritchard
The cold water is full of chemicals and limes and rusts seeping from deep underground pools of slushy industrial wastes from back when Barberton was on the ascendancy into the industrial revolution becoming the match making center of this part of the border to the emerging Western sections of the nascent United States. That crusty polluted rusty waters flowed West draining all the Portage Lakes flowing quickly after a once a century flash flood through the wide open Locks into a deluge down the rejuvenated Tuscawarus river across the mushy ancient graves of old Indian chief Captain Pipe and his sad lonely squaws and extinct Indians who lived in the Indian villages of Pipetown and three or four other Indian burrows and villages near sunny Nesbitt Lake.
Somehow life began anew from all those industrial pollutants and solvents oozing again and again over those extinct Indian graves and bones mixing with the rusts and irons and vitamins from the bleached soggy body parts and skins and Indian babies began to grow and thrive there in the rich vucousy muck thriving in silence, maturing without Mothers or fathers into good sturdy specimens becoming solid american citizens ready to work and consume and incidentally revitalize the Cleveland-akron-canton MSA into the 22nd century.
Good jobs are important for the Indians [ called hereafter native american] babies born without Mothers or fathers seeded and hatched from the muddy pollutants of nineteenth century american Industrial growth. When next shopping at the local dollar store give that weary, tired but pretty cashier with the high cheekbones a nod: she well could be a descendant of Old Captain Pipe the Indian chief who founded civilization here in the greater Cleveland Lake Erie basin.
Saturday, June 4, 2016
the word on the street
the word on the street
fiction
edward w pritchard
The word on the street is silenced and the "low spark of the high heeled boys"[1] dispersed sometime around 1971 out near San Fran, California I suppose on one of those hilly one way roads that plunge into the ocean where people with long hair wrapped in flags for warmth and boogie woogie country girls sang protest songs wearing short shorts and country western cowboy boots looking back over their well rounded soft shoulders to see if me the impersonal representative of my species noticed their fragility. Flash me the peace sign sweet Madonna I have lost my way. "I believe in god but don't think he believes in me"[2]. The War is over sorta but there is nothing to shout against and no one to give the finger to in specious anger them being us, all part of a mechanical impersonal sort of problem that has something to do with global warming, aging, endless cheesy consumerism, and god's and our imminent demise.
I heard the pregnant pause of an empty voice mail box, silent but expressive which will keep me going for a while, an eternity or two really and I saw Mars ascendant bright angry red in the sky last night, brighter than Jupiter but not aligned afraid to say, no more age of Aquarius still when the new administration lowers taxes which triggers 5 % GDP growth everything will be alright again, even with that empty voice mail box restraining the shadow of your smile; until that flip top cell phone ends in the landfill of the hole left by the vacant buildings recently torn down uptown to create empty space to revitalize our personal habitat and immediate future.
[1] "traffic" the music group"
[2] "Hair, LET THE SUNSHINE IN from the rock opera Aquarius
fiction
edward w pritchard
The word on the street is silenced and the "low spark of the high heeled boys"[1] dispersed sometime around 1971 out near San Fran, California I suppose on one of those hilly one way roads that plunge into the ocean where people with long hair wrapped in flags for warmth and boogie woogie country girls sang protest songs wearing short shorts and country western cowboy boots looking back over their well rounded soft shoulders to see if me the impersonal representative of my species noticed their fragility. Flash me the peace sign sweet Madonna I have lost my way. "I believe in god but don't think he believes in me"[2]. The War is over sorta but there is nothing to shout against and no one to give the finger to in specious anger them being us, all part of a mechanical impersonal sort of problem that has something to do with global warming, aging, endless cheesy consumerism, and god's and our imminent demise.
I heard the pregnant pause of an empty voice mail box, silent but expressive which will keep me going for a while, an eternity or two really and I saw Mars ascendant bright angry red in the sky last night, brighter than Jupiter but not aligned afraid to say, no more age of Aquarius still when the new administration lowers taxes which triggers 5 % GDP growth everything will be alright again, even with that empty voice mail box restraining the shadow of your smile; until that flip top cell phone ends in the landfill of the hole left by the vacant buildings recently torn down uptown to create empty space to revitalize our personal habitat and immediate future.
[1] "traffic" the music group"
[2] "Hair, LET THE SUNSHINE IN from the rock opera Aquarius
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