Prose
Blowing Smoke
Thick white plume gushes from flue pipes, a balcony view. Negative five degrees; I sit. I watch. I think. Blowing smoke sends clouds a confirmation. My cloudy vision readjusts; head nod to cumulus and all things I thought I knew. Furnace breathing system exhales, and I realize false information often misleads me.
By Marilyn Glover9 months ago in Poets
Out of Frequency
Sometimes it feels futile to place precise, emotionally intelligent work into systems built for sameness. Algorithms reward familiarity, not resonance. My signal doesn’t match the noise of the world I’m moving through. Being “off” is only a flaw in environments that value speed, ease, and categorization. I can accept differences in taste. What I struggle with is effort and substance being ignored while shallowness thrives. That is the discouragement.
By Alicia Melnick 9 months ago in Poets
