SLP dolldrum

The sun smiled bleakly through the clouds taunting SLP's citizens to get out and exercise their balled fists.  The frustration these slow players had as rain kept Minnesota down for a count of ten was revealed as fox crossed the paths.  Dark clouds rolled today and hid the laughing gases that wafted  through bucolic yards.  Half eaten burgers and wieners in crusty buns obscure grills caking with yesterdays' grease.  Yet, clotheslines link yards while lawn mowers hum and scatter their green caked blades and urchins tip skateboards despite the thunderous requests for rain.

If they hear the pipes that drain,
tortures bathed in nature.
Children lost in games when
St Louis lost its calm;

nurtured name that grew,
where weeds would sprout
again:  They forgot the
insane farmer, the

sharecroppers and
junk hoppers for
communes on the run...
.
There is no weed, no hippie residue.  The ventures closed and the capital's gained.  The shovel remains entrenched in the earthy salts; the colored faces the Park is worth.  Each day I see Hispanic landscapers bicycle down the path, voiding to laugh at their accomplishments.   The next day they fire down that same path and pause to smile and crack their sun-baked faces

prolouge

This is quite a different blog, I hope. As a writer clinging tenuously to the rungs on the ladder of success I'd like to present my case to those bleary-eyed surfers who have consented to give their left-brain ventures a rest. I welcome you, my hopeful minyan of followers, who may one day play a humble card in my literary game.