Worries would be compounded by an uncertain
sense of guidance, us fumbling numb and darkly
around the bottom of the bed like a cripple,
blind and guided by fingertips and the halting
lurch of legs. In the middle night past
midnight, depth and perceptions are always fuzzy
and it’s hard to tell how far away
sleep is. Or isn’t. If we always operated
under these conditions, we would always
live befuddled, in constant need
of the next drink, the cigarette,
the grope and fumble to find
the free release of tears.
By Harry Calhoun
Harry Calhoun grew up ... spent his early years, he has yet to grow up... in Connellsville, a town south of Pittsburgh. When wanderlust struck, he tiptoed to Pittsburgh before his parents realized he was gone. Years as a bartender, article writer, poet, and, finally, a marketing writer followed. He spent the mid-90s starving and doing poetry readings in Key West before relocating to Raleigh, North Carolina, where he has spent the past fifteen years. Harry has been published in a ton of places, edits Pig in a Poke magazine, had a book published last year and a book and two chapbooks published so far this year.
Harry’s poetry says he loves his wife and dog and likes being alive in general. Admirable. When he looks at the dark side, he’s keeping himself honest. Reflective. He writes because he’s too old to play lead guitar in a rock band; so what else is there? Pragmatic. His e-mail address: Harry Calhoun
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