It was in the early evening in the bustling town of Virginia City, Nevada, when the Angel of Temperance, or to use her real name, Constance P. Trolpers, began her rounds. She was a passionate woman, full of vigor, vim and anger at the treacherous sins of alcohol. Every night since the American Temperance Society
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Recently (how?), Kevin Kile (Mr. Kevin Kile) underwent (experienced) a perfect spam storm. (What does that mean?) The principal (main) source of Kevin’s (Mr. Kile’s) problem was vocational (work-related): he was (is) a writer (author). Specifically (yes, be specific), he was (is, is) an emerging (like a groundhog?) fiction writer with 43 (forty-three) Internet (ezine?
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Tell me why, O Lord, why I had to scurry and scramble escaping that Venetian prison to come all the way to Poland-Poland!-to be murdered by a lifelong knight, the Grand Butler to the Crown, Count Colonel Franciszek Ksawery Branicki, a name that sounds like a child’s careless scribbling? A man who has wounded his
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A Twenty-Syllable Epigram on the Modern Haiku The marriage of today’s busy professional with tomorrow’s oblivion. A Veritable Waste of Space Veritible’s a word of minor weight, mere filler culled to modify the void. Its meaning tacks to hurry-up-and-wait –all empty suit, adjectively deployed. This now concludes my veritable screed that heaped nonentitude on absent
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You’re my Venus, pretty lady, Aphrodite of a sulfuric acid. Morning Star sometimes, your alluring eyes sparkle like misleading stars. Larger than Earth can encompass Your beauty holds no bounds. No, not large like a Double Cheeseburger. I’m talking spacy, darling. Hair blonde like the gaseous swirls that Remind me of a half eaten Milky
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