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EDITOR’S LETTER

Collin Kelley collin@atlantaintownpaper.com

On May 7, I got a haircut. On May 16, I sat inside a Waffle House and had bacon and eggs. These dates wouldn’t usually be memorable, but during these strange days any steps toward normalcy suddenly seem worthy of mention. Except they weren’t actually normal. I waited in my car until it was time for my haircut and the plexiglass partitions, masks, and gloves gave the salon a CDC laboratory feel. At Waffle House, my dining companion and I were the only customers and it gave us pause about whether we should be there ourselves. Both outings had a “forbidden” quality to them, and I look forward to the day haircuts, eating in restaurants, running to Target, or seeing a movie returns to the unremarkably mundane.

As I mentioned in my May letter, I’ve been a journalist for more than 30 years and the COVID-19 outbreak is like nothing I’ve ever covered or reported on. I tried not to let it consume me, but there were many days when I was still working past midnight. I distracted myself with movies and shows, reading, and cleaning my refrigerator at 1 a.m.

Other nights, I would just get in my car and drive for an hour or two to clear my head. I found myself cruising through the empty streets of Downtown, Midtown, and often out into the burbs. I’d put on Miles Davis and just let the miles clear my head. As a poet, my instinct is to try and make sense out of the nonsensical through verse. I had been unable to write anything creative through the entire pandemic, my mind unable to coalesce around a metaphor or lyrical line. It was frustrating. But then on May 9, the poem I’m sharing below popped into my head while I was driving. I had to pull over into a parking lot to type it into my phone.

Enjoy this issue of INtown and, as always, keep well.

Flamenco Sketches (Demo)

~Four-bar vamp~

Saturday pandemic drive grey and improvised over empty interstate lanes.

Miles fades in and out signal stretched across low clouds, near mist.

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Momentary lockdown lift this piece has no melody, just modes a gist of Spain in the linger.

Drift wist, sun blown buzzing a standing wave all brass wasted on pavement.

Improvise a solo outing, like this flame etches or men catches oceans alone or these chests.

Let’s try it again, take six not a demo, not this pandem(ic)(onium).

A Note from Jim

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