[perhaps possibly adam to the rescue]
[by pablo panquesto]
an
ant
scurries
along
the
paper
as
i
try
to
etch
my
thoughts
he
inches
towards
my
pencil
to
the
lead
for
a
minute
i
wonder
if
he
wants
to
collaborate
and
then
i
ponder
maybe
he’s
telling
me
something
sacrificing
his
mere
miniscule
body
by
jumping
in
the
path
of
my
smeary
gray
words
in
an
attempt
to
tell
me
Stop!
Don’t
do
this!
You
are
wasting
your
time!
Nobody
cares!
Pablo Panquesto is in the middle of his forties yet not stuck. He is mobile, progressing forward to fifty, carrying with him in his bulky burlap: several mechanical pencils; a leather-bound journal; an antiquated, cumbersome typewriter and a few multi-colored paperclips that he can mold into several delightful shapes for inspiration. He writes screenplays mostly, but dabbles in other modes of fiction when the paperclips are aligned properly. Poetry is his most recent passion, especially after he recently became an eager cultivator of a garden of roses and violets, yes, some red, some blue.
