This Is A Period Piece. This Is An Iconic City.

We Are Tangentially Related

So, I said that I’d give it a shot. I was mildly pleased with the results. Actually, I was more than pleased, but I tried not to let it show. You were stinking of scorched hairs. The smell was so thick I wondered how even you could take it.

Twelve Flights of Creaking Stairs

We lit a fire than burned for hours. We bit a liar that learned for howls.

Serve Coffee To Kill The Mood

Much of anything is barely more than nothing, and a doll-faced princess with a slightly upturned nose and dark features hangs in the shadows. She’s a caricature of a cartoon, granting limited access to the lamb bleating behind a false front. I’d call it a response but there wasn’t one. Communication stunted. I am drunk and driving home again.

Confluence of Verve and Indifference

Mass confusion, pandemonium e n s u e s.
Fresh Tar sticks to passing tires.
a cat darts into the road
WASHING machine DRUM beat
car HornS BLast F-NOTES
only n a n o s e c o n d s remain
Are these wires grounded?

Long Last It Has Arrived

Solo expeditions into the heart of wooded territories aside, it’s a welcome change when we can exist in a void, shutting off outside influences and cranking the volume in our skulls ’til it vibrates like quartz crystals in a wristwatch. Hey, clown shoes, why the long face?

Deep In Greeley

Miles down Route-6. Miles down a dirt road. Not another soul for miles. Just a family of turkeys, black bears, and a doe with her fawn. I put on Days in the Wake, rolled a joint, and sat outside watching the horses stampede across the grounds. The full-moon hung huge overhead. Fell asleep listening to Sketches of Spain, with chilled air and a chorus of insects and hooves seeping through open windows.

Loose Branches Scrape Against Glass

Drowning in a bathtub full of tea leaves. Green eyes can see through me from afar. Legs like stone prohibit movement. Feel nothing but the burning sensation of muscle spasms and awkward poses. Insides are crunched together and guarded by bent knees. In the distance, wounded clouds are deep blue and mourning. I think you should come over. I’m terrorized by blizzards and longing to see you. A fortune of rolling waves signal an avalanche. Don’t ask any questions, secrets are so despised.

From The Hood of a Car; Billings, MT

An insomnia plea over telephone wires shakes my bedside table. Her rich, slow voice greets me smooth as syrup, and I can see the words she speaks rise like smoke from a flue. I stare at the far wall and listen as she ascends above the static. Blond. Wherever you are right now I wish I could place myself inside of it. The sound of lips smacking as speech passes through them is the percussion in her concerto. Words as instruments perform as I tap on my ribcage. Blond. It is beyond the midnight hour. You are scouring the airwaves for a kindred soul with whom to share secrets. For as long as you wish, we will keep each other at ease as the world lies dormant.

For A Bag And A Smile

This is the place with broken mirrors and 78s glued to the walls. Cracked green paint bleeds into red paint in the corners of the sitting room. Up fourteen flights of spiraling stairs in one-hundred degree heat, I needed to wash my face when I arrived. This is the bathroom of the dealer’s apartment. You couldn’t fit two people in that space, not even two of me.