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June 14, 2007

Thursday

It's poetry night at 100 word stories; no straight prose allowed.

And the theme for our poems shall be: heat.

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Jim: I Invented Having A Dream...

Al’s thoughts were in a frenzied jumble,
Like they were every waking hour.
He knew he had to formulate a plan
So he could finally regain power.

He plopped down beside his pool,
An umbrella propped for shade.
He put on his darkest Ray-Bans
And sipped an ice-cold lemonade.

“They just pushed me aside,” Al thought,
“Now I have to make them pay!
I must find a way to scare them all!
Damn, it sure is hot today.”

And then, from inside dark recesses,
Mental images began forming.
He’d stumbled upon a diabolical scheme
And he called it Global Warming.

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Jeff R.: Gumshoe's Quartina

She glided into my office
My pulse went racing from her walk
She fanned herself to beat the heat
Then opened an attache case.

"So Danny, will you take my case?"
I would, since it was my office
To save her from the cops, the heat
So she could on all charges walk.

And so I embarked on a walk,
And hurried down the old stair case,
Then noticed: in the moment's heat
I'd left my keys in the office.

They waited in my office, three large gunsels packing heat.
Advising me that I should walk away from Sharon's case.

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David: Incendio the Beatnik's Last Poetry Slam

Fire.
Fever.
Africa.
Fajitas.
The sun.
Stacy’s Mom.
Police pursuit.
Apple pie filling.
The latest trends.
That shade of pink.
The latest news item.
Dave’s Insanity Sauce.
The inside of a volcano.
Anything Paris Hilton enjoys.
Kathleen Turner in Body Heat.
The gun resting in your pocket.
The conversation everyone’s having.
The product everyone rushes out to buy.
The area inside the quarantine boundary.
A kitchen one might consider getting out of.
The sultry, sweaty, swampy state of Louisiana.
The area beneath the collar of an apoplectic politician.
The watch you bought from the guy on the street corner.
Me.

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