June 21, 2018 | Poetry
We’ve never lived in Culver’s territory and it still doesn’t
feel like we do. I mean, it’s at 33rd and Iowa and our place
is at 9th and Indiana. That’s like a 15-minute drive.
I based the Australian on a man I met in a coffee shop when I was 19. We went back to his place and did coke together, and he told me all about himself...
New Jersey as land of claws & fangs & deep fields of grass that stumble onto the side of the highway // New Jersey as fields of soft dirty ice // New Jersey as blondhairblueeyes slapping you in the face at lunch in the cafeteria in front of all your friends
The cartels were losing the battle. Everywhere they dug they met a new obstacle. There was freshly poured concrete down their northwest tunnel. They discovered recently installed top of the line micro security cameras. They came face to face with growling German shepherds.
The Club pursues a shaky business proposition, and Jax must decide where his allegiances... more
The day we met, you told me Los Angeles was home but that you were born in Houston. It was the insurance company’s orientation day for new employees, and you were standing alone at the far table, looking around with hesitation, like a child on the first day of school.
In this plastic bayou we’re not customers,
we’re guests. POPEYES GUEST 138,
YOUR ORDER IS READY. Guests, yes,
but also numbers—we’re not in Panera