They leaned back on Bobby’s Impala, staring at nothing.
The car, dark metallic blue with a black vinyl top and a black vinyl interior, sat there as the poster child for fashion over function,
at least for this weather,
as the so-blue-almost-black hood absorbed the heat of the day, so much so that one’s touch was answered with a scalding rebuke, the shady corner of the Crossings Grocery storefront no help at all against the August heat. The three ninety-six underneath waited, chomping at the bit, waited patiently to be fired up, give the hood a little more heat, feed…
Encore une fois, avec la grammaire
Eddie, he shivered nervously.
He lagged behind, he sucked on the Ricola Original Herbal cough drop that he had popped into his mouth as they exited the car. He thought to himself, perhaps he said it aloud to the universe, to the grackles, starlings, bats all flitting about in the evening sky, he said to himself,
“Tis a strange place, this place that looks, that smells, that sounds. that seems like home.”
Eddie’s home. That part of the South from whence he had emerged from between his momma’s legs too many years ago, from…
eddie he shivered nervously he lagged behind he sucked on the riccolo lozenge that he had popped into his mouth as they exited the car he thought to himself perhaps he said it aloud to the universe to the grackles starlings bats flitting about in the evening sky he said to himself
tis a strange place this place that looks smells sounds seems like home
that part of the south from whence he had emerged from between his momma’s legs too many years ago from whence he had escaped not long after a seemly swamp propped up by wounded cypress…
A low dug clay pit, maybe the size of a double-wide trailer, a low dug pit most of which banked up and into the piney wood that splotched the landscape here and there, wide and thin, thick and narrow between and amongst fields and pastures and junkyards and pecan orchards, both functioning and abandoned, west and down south of Cuthbert, Georgia.
A low dug clay pit sits off some labyrinth of dirt roads, off Highway 266, off a timeline that’s not now but it’s not not now.
A low dug clay pit sweats beneath a late morning August sun that…
low dug clay pit maybe the size of a double-wide trailer a low dug pit most of which banked up into against the piney wood that splotched here and there wide and thin thick and narrow between amongst fields and pastures and junkyards and pecan orchards both functioning and abandoned west and down south of cuthbert georgia
off some labyrinth of dirt roads off of two sixty-six off a timeline that’s not now but it’s not
under a late morning august sun that worked hard to burn off what’s left of the earlier heavy dew a keen eye…
they’re in his cousin’s room bobby’s room it’s downstairs off the main foyer big old house big ceilings big windows heavy curtains mostly closed keeping out a good portion of the afternoon sun only a sliver getting in a spotlight on the parcheesi board sitting between them on a small oval rag rug resting on the pinewood floor
dust pixies allergens disguised as faeries perhaps vice versa float above the board sparkling glimmers of hope teasing desire shimmying possibilities
a bare overhead bulb hangs from the ceiling the chain hangs even lower where they can reach it where mickey…
the window is open
the cold rain and snow thirty four and moaning outside moving around the brooklyn brownstone being no match for the dry desert wind that belches into the room blistering the seven layers and a hundred years of paint coating the ancient ornamental vent cover ooze-popping corpuscles doing the prima donna peter max blending swirling running
a tammy faye mascara medley mixed with news of jimmy’s infidelities
a beastly breath burped exhaled excreted passed across this zitacious vent drawn from down deep from the extended windpipe of what must belong to must be attached to be a…
I was in South Georgia last week…down in Albany and Camilla canvasing for Stacey Abrams. So, a rare posting from me, with a few observations of the experience:
fuckin’ a tourists
they either come in and treat us like some quaint yet overpriced colonial outpost some disneyana of liberalism that banksy could have used right out of the box turnkey why bother to spend all that time and money and speculation on perverse mousketeers smoking crack in the outer glades of the
when you have the freakiness of good gone awry right here with a populace drowning in our own smugness while others simply seek a place to squat and attend to their respective paperwork they these visitors with their sloping proboscides sans corrective lenses
A Yelp Review
out there on 22nd street down in the mission what will in a few years be the edge of the mission arising out of some sort of inverted twisted and rounded mobius strip of a joe south song i love her she loves me i don’t fit her society whoa-oh-oh edge of the mission that is becoming zuckerberg’s mission
tucked away on 22nd on the corner of a nouveau transpo alley tables on a little porch outside tables and built-in benches inside small bar for ordering in the back
is the revolution cafe
a coffee house that…
There is no devil just god when he's drunk.