Category: chris kallfelz
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Praha Ticho
He prostrates himself on wet cobblestone. He rests on his knees, keeps his head down, and holds his arms stretched out holding a hat with a few coins inside. You look at his fingernails first. They are black, grimy and chipped. His hands, crusted with dried blood, shake slightly. He…
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Main Street Rain
Misty rain blows over the dark storefronts along Main Street. Cloudy, windy, dreary gray drizzle— it floats down kissing the streets & rooftops & awnings & fence-posts & gutters & road & buildings & trees & grass. It blesses everything with its touch. The same cold wet sheet pulled tight…
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SILENT SPACES
Any given day My father is awake at 5 am. He makes coffee in a brass pot in the kitchen, pours it into a porcelain mug, and drinks it black. He walks slowly to the garage in his socks, lights up a Pall Mall menthol, and looks at his…
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