poetry is purity —not aligned with the plots and justifications of the short story But instead— The pure pump of blood Inky, flamingo-colored, without thought, vibing off the chemicals of the mind the streak! (write it, type it up) Whether the chemicals are in-born or huffed The pure gasoline screams —of Serotonin, endorphins, what-not (the…
He had cases of Nitrous. Actual cases of the crackers, what looked like 20-packs. The cases’’ ends could be torn off along perforated edges to access the crackers, like those 12-packs of beer that were designed to be laid in refrigerators. And, oh, he had torn them. He was on box two when I saw…
Rob had never been in this particular coffee shop before. Most of his contracts were in Alameda, so there was the reliable Tommy’s, the more gourmet Bean House and the sub-par Corporal’s Coffee, which he visited in a pinch. He was a lover of coffee. He took it black, the way coffee was supposed to…
Michelle had a certain way of sitting on the high stools at Mando books. She arranged her lower legs on the stool, then sat on her calves while leaning forward so that her ass bloomed round over her inward-turned feet. ~ I was chillen in the deserted back parking lot of the bank next to…
The raging, dreaded hippie kids, swirled in by a technicolored tornado of glee, glitter and hallucinogens, sent by the hippie Goddess to anoint the unblessed with ointments and doses and liquor belted straight from the bottle… “…Chris…Christopher DOY-le…” Chris’ Subaru was slapped on the side of dusty street running along warehouses in the SOMA district…
I’m not saying that certain people don’t canvass for NYPIRG because of the greater good. I’m just saying that I was not one of those people. NYPIRG stands for New York Public Interest Research Group—it’s essentially a progressive lobbying organization. They’ve been heavily involved in fighting the natural gas interests that have been trying to…
The Darkcamp The 12 levels of the subworld Must look like a cross-section of ant tunnels I am reverse-birthed downwards every night, one choice at a time through the plasma womb into greater worlds —the haylight and the ocarina’s harmonies but the fanged proprietor makes me forget every morning— —the trick Down to level 11…
Based on Kandahar 24 Phillips jetted up through the levels of sleep and was reversed-birthed through his mattress. He laid on his limp, sweaty sheets for a moment. It was still the middle of the night—he could tell by the thin air’s harsh edge. His clock had hit midnight—the new hour, the hour for new…
One boot: apply pressure to the ground, slightly shift the sand-silt away from the heel, the sole presses to the earth’s center (way down there, oh way down below)—the earth pushes back and the body overhead moves upwards. Right foot: lift it, quadriceps kneeing the desert air. The arid heat descended down from the stars…
An extremely short conference table squats in the middle of a cavernous corporate board room. Three men in their early 30s, Carter, Binwald and Vince, enter, all wearing stylish suits with the collars open. They are all coked to SHIT. Vince: …so I says to the stripper, ‘you should be tippin me!’ The three men…
The Other Hudson Valley 