Footprints in Wet Cement by Peter Wortsman

those Footprints in rainy Cement are only that: tales a few skilled, a few homespun, a few dredged from the fertile detritus of goals; impressions accumulated and ruminations fermented during the last decade or so—the fleeting imprint of a existence left to harden within the tenuous mildew of language. Straddling the tenuous borderline among the narrative and the poetic, they're all of the manufactured from a pressed aesthetic.
To borrow from the foreword: “An atom of topic is all it takes to make a reasonably large bang. E = mc2, the concise epic of the 20 th Century, is 3 letters and a unmarried digit lengthy. an analogous impatient age that spawned the transistor and the pc chip, the acronym and the one-minute advertisement, the data bit, the sound chunk, the photograph op, and the tweet, additionally contrived its personal narrative form—call it brief brief, unexpected or flash fiction, name it a narrative in a rush, or a poem exploding its corset. Bastard baby of the prose poem and the clever crack, illegitimate inheritor to the myth and the allegory, this mongrel darling used to be raised on a nutrition of the coarse and the crafty, brash enormous urban bus bumper and subway advertisements, political crusade delivers, dream fragments, one-liners, and over the counter painkiller packaging reproduction. Ever frightened for a fast repair of that means, posing now as a poem, now as a narrative, it steals its power from valid types in basic terms to sabotage any underpinnings of legitimacy. type and size differ with each one narrative in keeping with its wishes. quickly sufficient, the following day perhaps, will probably be categorised, neutered and defanged for renowned intake and the varsity curriculum. yet for the instant it truly is nonetheless as slippery as footprints in rainy cement.”