"I had many things to write, but I will not with ink and pen write unto thee..."
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CRAIG KIRSCHNER
Breakfast and some news at the 'Twin Kiss' Diner			

The booth was claustrophobic. 
The sports section I held between us 
was like a volleyball net, 
your stares lofting over 
like shots of fresh egg 
I couldn't spike.
When Alice came to take your order 
and you looked at each other 
for the first time 
the silence was as thick
as the coffee.
Twins – identical,
if her hair had been curled 
and she'd had some cleavage. 
I can't remember who 
was first to speak, 
probably me, 
but then you ordered. 
One egg, one sausage – one carb.
I felt I had to order two of something 
just on principle.
You ripped my 'Post' to shreds 
and smashed my reading glasses 
before you stormed out of the diner. 
I wasn't sure if it was the five sugars 
I snuck in your coffee 
or my comment about 
your hang-ups being cultural, 
most likely it was my suggestion 
we get together with the waitress 
when she was done her shift. 
I stood four-eyed in front 
of the cash register 
as Alice gave me six quarters 
change for a dollar 
for a USA Today, 
winked, 
stuck out her studded tongue 
and walked back into the kitchen.
Indians or rabbits
Drenched from the surf 
on an unguarded beach 
we removed our jeans 
to a blanket 
between the dunes.
The tips of the black waves
sparkled like sequins
and your dirty blonde curls
took on a pink hue
as the moon hung at the end 
of the silver path like a pendant
and lit the cool night air 
with a diamond brilliance.
I laid under you and rubbed
my lips across your wrists
as you asked me if I thought 
anyone had ever made love 
on this exact spot.
This perfect spot where the soft
moving mounds of warm sand 
met the damp hard sand 
of the beach.
We squished that sand 
through our toes
and I brushed it 
from your eyebrows.
The salt in the air
and the smell of your breasts
as you pressed them to my lips
all beckoned like the moon
that the night be spent, caressed
and I thought perhaps 
Indians or rabbits.


CARIG KIRCHNER's poetry appears in journals on and offline including Subterranean Quarterly, Erosha, Divine Animal, The Blotter, and Thunder Sandwich.
"Poetry endangers the established order in the soul."
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MATT BARRINGTON
Confidence: A Writer's Survival Kit

Let's face it. Writing, even just for fun, is a very scary exercise. It exposes our true selves to the world around us, whether the world knows what it's looking at or not. I've never met a writer who could take every part of themself out of their work and produce anything other than mindless drivel. But in exposing ourselves in such a way, we are preparing to be hurt, ridiculed, and insulted for our work.

Building a thick skin is vital to the survival of our worlds, and yet how many people with untapped potential have you met who don't write because they're "not that good"?

Probably several, and if you don't know any, they might be too shy to talk about it.

How does anyone survive as a writer?

The answer, as is usually the case, is sublimely simple. We must build ourselves up so high in our own minds that no one else can touch us. We must grow as writers and people to the point that no foolish comment from friend or family member will be felt as anything more than a featherstroke on our skin. It must be felt, there is no way around that, but it must not be felt fatally.

How to grow that big, you ask me?

Let me ask you this, how do you get to Carnegie hall? We can achieve confidence in any aspect of ourselves by practice. Day in, and day out, practice, practice, practice. When we dream about writing, think about writing, and find ourselves writing everywhere we go, then we'll find our greatest growth is happening.

Become obsessed!

Allow yourself to dwell on improving and have fun while you do it! Don't listen to what others say about there being no future in it. We don't write for the future, we write to feel alive in the right now, and if it lasts for the next few nows, more's the better. Confidence gained through practice is by far the most potent form of living. Even if you don't feel great about what you're writing, keep doing it. Eventually, even if it takes years, you'll write something great, and you'll know it. When you do, no one can take that from you. It's a moment that will help define you in your own mind as a writer

---ABOUT THE AUTHOR---

. Matt Barrington is the operator of The Fiction Writer's Feast, a free resource for writers and aspiring writers.

poetryREpairs.com invites essays on any and all things related to poetry,

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from poetryREpairs MM.11:131

RICKY GARNI
from INTIMATE PORTRAITS, POEM #1: Laundry			

herešs an interesting
surprise:
all the laundry on
the laundry line
was completely dry

by eight ošclock
in the morning

even though it had
rained fiercely
the night before,

so hard, in fact,
that I had to seek
shelter in a bike

store until it
closed.

'good night!'
they said,

but it was
still raining.
drat. I felt
like an ancient
king

who is not
allowed to be
touched by any
one, or by steel,
for some reason,
and therefore even
had to use

bronze
in order
to shave

or so I read
although by

morning everything
was dry on the
closeline. except

for one moist,
white, towel.

it had fallen down
and lay frozen
and desolute
on the ground.

I picked it up
and it felt
like a crinkly
dead body.

it was so
incredibly light
and stiff
and filled with so
many icy bits
that you wanted
to laugh and
laugh until

you couldn't
laugh anymore
and until

the towel...

it was dry
and normal


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