Category: Writing
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There’s something about lemonade in the summer that just hits me. Like right now, I can see the glass pitcher with the lemony yellow liquid inside. Someone is stirring it with a spoon. A glass full of ice cubes sits on the counter. Someone picks up the pitcher and pours…
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In a town called Shithole, Wyoming Where all good dreams skid, crash, and die The interstate exhaust hangs thick in the air And the cackles of the unloving haunt lonely hotel halls and rooms Where the color of the walls is warm wounded gauze and infection And the static of…
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The wetness of the town out there As I sit at the window in the coffee shop The soft clank of cups, the murmur of voices Beads of water against the glass The gentle jangle of a door opening The smell of the brewing and wool coats The unfurling of…
CEREAL AFTER SEX 