- By Edward Clifford
“Once a security guard caught me practicing my art
in the nearby park. He instructed me to stop my obscene
driveling. I paid him no heed, sent a bubble towards him
like a free-spirited man in a parachute. He was
unmoved. I lose hope, sometimes. I grow weary…”
—from “At age 10, I showcase my ability by blowing spit bubbles,” Summer 2018 (Vol. 59, Issue 2)
Tell us about one of the first pieces you wrote.
I began writing poems in high school, and I still remember the first poem I wrote. It came about after a long drive home alone one night. It was late and I’d not taken this route before, and the quiet road glowed orange and stretched on and on like a dream. When I got home, without...