"Into the teacup, quickly, my friends!"

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Bob Sward's Writer's Friendship Series

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Issue 12: The Necessary Ear

Issue 11: The Necessary Eye

Issue 10: Out on a Limb

Issue 9: The Missing Body

Issue 8: The Lily

Issue 7: Passages

Issue 6: No More Tears

Joe Green

Letter from a Dog Before Troy

Dear Penelope,
It's windy here. Nine years in a tent on the beach.
Ulysses says they know what they're doing.
Nine years and for what?
What's nine years to them?
Most of my life.
I'm tired. Don't even ask me about the gods.
There's a limit to loyalty.
But you already know that.
I know about the puppies.
You should have told me.
She told me, of course.
I don't care.
Just get them out of Ithaca.
By the time you read this
I'll be gone. I have..what..four more years?
Going to someplace where there are no men.
No gods.
Maybe a few rabbits.



The out-of-work painter sketches the ghetto
emptied of its inhabitants.
The painting is filled with objects.
The absence of the living is only temporary
and hints at the most delicious mysteries.
The "somewhat overstocked zoos" of pre WWII Europe.
Zeppelins are required. Liftships leave every day.
We all took pretty ponies up the golden stairs to the sun.
Extraordinary visions all last night.
Along the lake of Silvaplana,
not too far from a certain powerful pyramidal rock near Suler
I was given the envelope.
Into the teacup, quickly, my friends!
The cup (as the mirror shows)
is indeed the cracked yellow one
Otto Frank is now holding in his trembling hands
as the Nazis march down the little street.
But little teacup does make it through!
And the silence and dust are so dear to us.

Later the teacup is filled with the eyelashes of owls.
A wind comes and we waft through the night.