And in the winter I traveled by ship to a land of copper domes and cobble roads, of shops glowing beyond frosted windows, of lampposts capped with mounds of snow, where I fell in love with a girl with an abnormal face.
Because I can tell it's going to be a crappy day at work I dress up as Virgin Mary with my blue silk dress and white head scarf and lemon drop halo that got coffee spilled on it so it's a little warped, but it will do for one day of selling shoes.
When my friend is upset because someone posted
about them on the internet in a way they aren’t
sure is ironic, it makes me wish I wish I lived in
olden times. Shit was real back then.
If
I
The man—Grandpa's friend—said,
Welcome to Heaven on Earth.
He wore overalls and climbed in
through the window.
Mary Kay, seven maybe, staying
with Grandpa over
When Ettore was a boy, he dreamed of puppets hovering over his bed.
What came next was one long show: broken strings, smashed microphones, guitar solos without boundaries or purpose, house parties with bands in the kitchen and bands in the attic, missing kick drum pedals, stolen snares, songs we couldn’t figure out how to end and we drifted inside them, lost within our own imaginations.
like when I stand with the kitchen scissors in the citygarden, / thunderloving a green skinned fruit. // He hears my kisses, a wall grabber, the neighbors’ dog / left out in the cold. here’s to his / soft wet nose and a part of me / that bleeds dogblood, impure.
We crowd around the flame, we extend our naked hands, we feel the joints in our fingers warm and crack. The smoke stains our jackets and hats with its smell.
Gabriel Blackwell’s been busy. In the past two years he’s released three books, two from Civil Coping Mechanisms, and one from Noemi Press: a book of essays and stories called Critique of Pure
1. Prayer, according to the Encyclopedia of Occult and Parapsychology, is a “means for humans to make contact with the divine.”
2. The verb “pray” is a variant on the classical Latin word
I have been trying very hard / to consider the window’s pane, / but life keeps occurring beyond it. / Two gangs who were firing .45s / at each other across our busy street / inadvertently shot a lady in the forehead.
“Hello ma’am. I presume you are the lady of the house. Please allow me to introduce myself. I am Mr. Basal and I believe that I have something you’ve lost – something you’d like to get back,” he
A lady doesn’t need makeup unless it’s the war paint she’s putting on to end me.
Juicy
“This album is dedicated to all the teachers that told me I'd never amount to nothin'”
- The Notorious B.I.G.
This is the song that
White light from the television brought me here.
Everything in this store is very far away from everything else in this store.
I pass razors and products containing ephedrine or
Yesterday, Barry Graham favored us with his Top 10 Cities to Get Drunk In, numbers 5-1, and last week he gave us 10-6 and a series of guest-additions. Below are a second set of guest entries from
Last week, Barry Graham favored us with his Top 10 Cities to Get Drunk In, numbers 10-6, as well as a series of guest-additions. Below are are his top 5, and we will follow-up tomorrow for a second
Many young novelists have been gravitating toward a movement known as the “Real Newism.” Adherents of the Real Newism assert that effective fiction requires “experiencing events.” And today, you
Yesterday, Barry Graham favored us with his Top 10 Cities to Get Drunk In, numbers 10-6. He also included a few guest entries from some of his favorite drinker/writer/travelers, and those are
We all know what getting drunk means and we all know what cities are and the title is pretty self explanatory, so I'm gonna use my obligatory top ten introductory statement to break down my
I sat and bawled for half an hour after finishing Hill William in one swift read through this morning, beginning to end in an hour.
Buckhorn Golf Course
36 FM 473, Comfort, TX 78013
4 out of 5 stars
This place is a real gem. Just imagine the scene: The Buckhorn Golf Course opens up before you, revealing layer
When Rob sent out pictures of Sophia, innocuous prints of her at a bar or a party, he found himself getting pictures in return. These pictures he got were never family portraits or pictures with
Walter Matthau, we assume, has had a bad day. Or a bad night. Or both. Hell, back it up as far as you want to go: Week. Year. Fucking life. Drinking a beer in a Pizza Hut a few minutes into the
