WestVirginiaVille

Dammit Dammit Dammit. I say to myself, rounding the corner of a building on the Marshall University campus this morning espying my Honda. The sign of a hassle, flying its flag upon my windshield, a ticket.

I have spent my adult life rounding curves in the road here in West by god or so they say Virginia. There are curves around most every curve here.

A selection of poems from “Sprittling Secrets,” in the debut of “aFewPoems,” an occasional series on poetry found around the Village of WestVirginiaVille.

Some nights, I drag home from the office with all good intentions. I’ll finally write that piece about my thoughts on Occupy Whatever. But then, I got nothin’. But I got pictures.

A found poem pounces out the morning e-mail box. Surely, it does. But now I’m not so sure how surely best to phrase it.

No open casket. If you weren’t around to see my face before the undertaker’s scary Silly Putty makeover, then I’m just saying. Google my name, say goodbye to one of those pictures of me. I looked a lot better back then.

A curious, well-done, scrawled declaration intrigues the visitor passing a nook of an abandoned doorway along Summers Street in downtown Charleston, West Virginia.