Frank D'Andrea
Bio
cryptocurrent
Stories (22/0)
A very short haiku wherein no allusions to accidental parking lot construction reveal a green copper box disinterred 73 years too early from the base of an abandoned war monument...
You drilled past old scabs to shames (jacks-in-a-box crouched); unwittingly sprung.
By Frank D'Andreaabout a year ago in Poets
Mons Venus
Upside-down shadow, penumbra over Mt. Hood; Cloudy beaver shot.
By Frank D'Andreaabout a year ago in Poets
The Squeeze
It’s not summer until I’ve had a proper Italian Ice. I don’t mean the kind that comes from those scrape-able paper cups with included flat wooden spatulas from the grocer’s freezer. I’m talking about the real deal. It’s like frozen puffs of a lemon ice cloud scooped from Micalizzi’s in Bridgeport, Connecticut. Until you’ve had one, you don’t know what summer tastes like.
By Frank D'Andrea2 years ago in Fiction
Husband no. 5
After your third husband, I’d joke with people that you were like Elizabeth Taylor. At bars, or at other one-upmanship contests, I’d confess to my in-group-of-the-month that I didn’t know exactly how many husbands you’ve technically had (four? six?), but that I was pretty sure you were now on your last. But that’s not what I want to talk about.
By Frank D'Andrea2 years ago in Confessions
A preponderance of plaid
My parents dressed me in plaid polyester from about the time that I could walk until about the time the flame-retardant pajama laws went into effect – about seven years later. If you were to see early pictures of me, you might be forgiven if you mistook me for a child whose parents when yachting on weekends or played lawn tennis in the early morning. You could be excused if you thought I might be the child of some Scottish or Irish immigrants given the preponderance of plaid in my day-to-day ensembles. I had plaid polyester slacks, leisure suits, and bucket hats. You might have guessed that, from the looks of things, one of my parents must be Herb Tarlek from WKRP in Cincinnati.
By Frank D'Andrea3 years ago in Styled
Lunch on ball day
Lunch hour at the farm was the same as in any corporate cafeteria except that here, the cheap bastards that run the place make us all pay for own lunches. Unless you were a hybrid (or a node); they eat for free as part of their benefits plan, I guess. Our cafeteria is on the fifth floor of the main building. From here, we have great views of downtown, and all of the lesser buildings on our campus.
By Frank D'Andrea3 years ago in Futurism