ανησυχία

Poor writing inward fighting and hiding scripts.

From her friends, from the ones she loves, those that she hates.

Embarrassed but clear.

Spending time washing down the fence for which to white wash.

She falls in this way.

In regret and hope and dishonesty.

That what she’s written is not her best.

So she feels alone and without dignity.

Like a hand knitted night gown pleaded in a rival gang’s colors.

Like an atheist in a foxhole, her heart is filled with apprehension.

Without comfort and without companionship she is left to her work.

To continue to invest time in what she has burned away from.

Like a flame internally burning itself out

But its job is to be a flame.

So it spends its time burning.

Embarrassed she remains alone in her craft.

Spending countless hours to perfect what is widowed.

To invest in what is spent.

She writes for the pleasure of others, reads for herself, and shares it all with none.

- Nick Rotola

Piece for Final Portfolio

              

               “Come on Joe, sit him down”, says the shortstop to the pitcher as there are two outs and two strikes and I am looking like prey. Relax I say to myself as I lift my bat and find my focus point. I feel a lot of time now. As if the first part of the bat was just a dream and I now have the luxury of knowing what’s going on. The pitcher looks much shorter now, he kind of looks like my younger brother. That thought makes me smile and the pitchers attitude goes from a positive one to one of slight confusion and pompous curiosity. He steps off the rubber to gather himself and it makes me glad to have a few more seconds. 

                

               For the first time in the at bat the pitcher looks like just another guy having thoughts in his head. He steps back on the rubber and I plant my right foot in first, then my left. I take one deep breath swing my bat around and get set like I have since I was a little leaguer. Come on meat, I say towards the pitcher, positive that the catcher and the umpire heard me. Throw me something I can hit. At this point my mind is finally clear. It comforts me to think about my superiority to the pitcher, because the closest thing to thinking about nothing is one. He starts his wind up now, the count is 2-2; His wind-up taking much longer than before. His eyes are looking worn out above his sloppy frame. He plants his foot and delivers the ball. The pitch is a strike. The bat is still resting comfortably on my shoulder.

Flowing Through a Forest

Bootlegging as he legged out a triple could have rested on his double, strapped up his boots and went the extra ninety. Granite pressed firmly against the backsplash pushing and hoping to escape the never ending wash and dry cycle. Allergic to liquid the granite crumbles and cloaks itself in crumbs wishing to avoid the spill. The rag is bodysurfing on its face, dancing on its grave, and forcing soapy water into its once energetic pores.

The golden violin then comes in free and without wind protected by the glass and with the wit to find it’s purpose. You first propose, but then you see its prose, and are guided by the light shining down on its nose. It stands firmly on the stand, handed from man to man, dismissing any thoughts of harm finding the next comforting stand for which it lands. The violin is heavy in its ways, eating carrots and expressing its golden blooded charm with its rosie red cheeks.