poems from the Quantum Letterbox
by David E. Oprava

The unfinished screenplay blew around his bloody Brook’s Brothers; the custom-made briefcase lay sprung near his hand. He was dead long before his head split like a water balloon on the asphalt. The Valentino tie was a complete loss.

You couldn't see the color of the thoughts he left behind to haunt the air-conditioned tenth floor, though Sally said on the TV that they were typed out neatly and left on his Mac in perfect shades of gray.

It certainly wasn't a disappointment for the spectators who blinked from their benches over at Grant Park. They lived for quality entertainment such as this, (really terrific stuff doesn't come along very often).

But you know, he could have flicked himself like spit from a passing car, or even screamed his way down, maybe rolled right up to their boots reciting his latest offering, now THAT would have been worth optioning!

Well, sure, you could predict the guy's attempt at flight -- His words these days never seemed to stick. Instead they always floated for a moment on the air, then swirled away like last night's news. He hadn't gotten a bite in weeks, nothing but rejection slips.

He was way too serious about it, way too depressed. Benny called him, "the king of premature articulation." But hell, if you're going to admit it, guts and blood do tend to liven up an otherwise ordinary day.