The attic’s effluvium is a complex mélange: one-third salt, one-third mold, one-third urine. Hot spruce. The medley is equally identifiable on the palate; I can taste it, I never seem to adjust. All July and August, every breath is like gargling with swampwater, each a heavy, slow-simmered nauseous experience. The . . . → Read More: Pink Turtleneck About Which No One Asks Any Questions
In early summer ’07, my closest friends left town without saying goodbye. There’s a story behind this, the lack of parting salutations, but I didn’t hear it for two years. The short version: one of these friends, the wife in a married pair, told her husband and, apparently, everyone else she knew that I’d been . . . → Read More: Reveal the Best of Me
Simplify, simplify. If I hadn’t already mulched my dog-eared, trade-paper copy of Walden/Civil Disobedience, I could have extended that quotation profoundly, instead of merely adumbrating the idea. Simplify.
By November of 2000, I had a mattress. Stained and remaindered from a two decade-old futon, it laid without linens on the unfinished wood floor, piebald with . . . → Read More: Failing the Litmus Test for Apathy
When I leave the bar I swear I’m steady, even demonstrate by touching fingertips to eyelids. “See,” I say, “fine motor skills.”
So you let me go and I drive forty minutes on empty predawn freeways, all the time fighting dual urges to throw up, pass out.
I’ll wake up behind the dumpster or—best case— . . . → Read More: DWI
A master plan, a rafter marked with an X. A personal conspiracy as such is a tacit grasp at interpersonality. Your heart on a spit, roasting center stage, with its not so secret aspirations of infliction, a four-valved bomb. Did you know that hope creates exit wounds? Or that repulsion is a pheromone too?
A . . . → Read More: Ideally, It Would Be a Wetworks