Different Slants

Seeing the World from a New Angle

Surviving the Bad Times…by Robert M. Katzman

Filed under: Friendship & Compassion,Gritty Katzman Chicago Stories,Old Fart Wisdom — Bob at 12:42 pm on Thursday, April 10, 2014

© April 10, 2014

 

For my grandkids, and yours

 

Hard to know all this
When you’re a kid
I was a kid
I didn’t know enough
Didn’t have much choice
Bad times are thrust upon you
Not like choosing a college

(Read on …)

Time, Unmeasured,1969…by Robert M. Katzman

Filed under: Love and Romance,Politics,Retail Purgatory,subtle erotica — Bob at 5:28 pm on Monday, March 31, 2014

© March 31, 2014

 
It was a six foot by eight foot wooden box
I built it in Chicago
I was nineteen
From the heavy hinged door to the slanted roof
So the snow would fall off
A solitary window slid back and forth
The rain was defeated
The small structure was solid
And eventually I, too, was solid
Because one thing led to another

(Read on …)

Precision…by Robert M. Katzman, 3/16/2014

Filed under: Depression and Hope,Obsession — Bob at 12:45 pm on Sunday, March 16, 2014

All his lines are parallel
Boots side by side
Left on the left
Right on the right
There is a second pair
Waiting
For more serious weather
Drifts of snow
That may never come
But he is ready
Which is important

(Read on …)

Meaning, Nothingness and How was Your Day?…by Robert M. Katzman

 © March 5, 2014  (inspired by David Griesemer)

I race to work
Knowing
No one’s there
I don’t want to miss
Another chance
To be missed

Although
This may seem
Illogical
Contemplation of emptiness
During unending time
Has rearranged my
Reality

(Read on …)

Edited Love (for rejected writers)…by Robert M. Katzman

Filed under: Humor,My Own Personal Hell,Rage!,subtle erotica — Bob at 1:23 pm on Monday, February 24, 2014

© December 2009

 

Don’t make my kisses

a

Comma In your sentences

  (Read on …)

Chicago South Side, 1959: Sunday Brunch Battlefield…by Robert M. Katzman

© February 16, 2014

 

Pots and pans flew

From my Mom toward my Dad

Grey metal whizzing through the air

Once a sharp ice tray shot by my small

Olive-toned nine-year-old face

Just missing me

Did she ever hit him?

He’d never say

Good thing she was a lousy shot

And he never returned fire

Our kitchen was No Mans Land

In 1959

  (Read on …)

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