by Pat Foran frame harirak/Unsplash When the radio was a rope and someday was a lifeline to a place that wasn’t a place, but could’ve been, we were good. Yes, we were good, we’d say. Rope-less, lifeline-less and could-less, we get it. We see. We see we aren’t so good. Not anymore. Not in this rain. We have rainwater in our shoes rainwater in our blues rainwater in our hearts rainwater in our souls rainwater in our Riboflavin, I tell our alchemy life coach. You are a tuning fo

by Pat Foran Tijen Sakin Me and my imagined ex, we would meet at the empathy booth on Today and Tomorrow streets. Nice day for some empathy , my imagined ex would say. Me and my imagined ex, we would remember, but not talk about, the undecorated days, the days we shared sweet potato popsicles at every loading dock in town, wearing arm-pocket sweatshirts and forklifting small talk with our feet. Me and my imagined ex, we would trade emails with snappy subject lines like “Effor

by Pat Foran Pars Sahin I’m binge-watching “Here Come The Brides,” a 1960s TV show starring David Soul, Bobby Sherman, Joan Blondell and “the brides.” Shipped to the bluest skies you’ve ever seen are in Seattle from New Bedford, Massachusetts, the brides are in the post-Civil War Pacific Northwest to “keep the lumberjacks happy,” as one of the guys on the show puts it. “No, you promised each of us a husband if we came,” says one of the brides. “We’re on opposite ‘The Glen Ca