Here, in the green glass light of the parlor, Swaingrove cultivates its memories.

he whispered Fuck this shit, and I asked him what he meant.
All he said was I have to go and put me on hold. Now all I am sure of
is Whitney Houston in my ear.

how do you know how to make a
difference in my life? I’m so happy.
I’m at a news release from prison in
my head.

Jordan Castro's thoughts re: Young Thug's Slime Season and Drake/Future's What A Time To Be Alive in the first installment of his new column re: rap & rap-related things, "The GwalaCost."

Because my father dips himself / into the vagina of a Swedish woman // and is never found again, / my mother's heart dies.

E says the sky is fuller today and I say it isn’t. Meaning we aren’t significant so why would our surroundings be.

By the time I hang up, the goats turn into Roger Clemens and Pedro Martinez. We smoke my last cigarettes, the three of us. 

Jordan Castro writes some jumbled thoughts re: "slang" then writes about some words that he likes...

You slept for a few hours after that, but I stayed awake, mostly wondering why you hadn’t yet scraped the popcorn texture off of the ceiling in your house. 

QUERY 5: About half the time, your APOSTROPHES and your QUOTATION MARKS don’t curl around the way they should— “ or ” , not " , and ‘ or ’ , not ' —which is how I know you are writing half of all your articles on your cellphone.

Jeff is driving me nuts. he's a fucking showboating liar. Walking around here like he owns the place. He only owns us.

If you’ve ever been asked to place your anxiety on a litmus test of 1-10 and have no idea what a 10 would constitute, then you know how jarring and disconnected this question could be. I thought about running away from the office, I thought about knocking over one of her plants 

In the staff meeting she thought about enemas.  

I keep coming back to the church.  

Every night since she stays in, thumbing the wheel. She burns napkins and cotton swabs. She burns whatever she can find.

On your way home from work,
you stop at a liquor store for smokes.

We were sitting on the shores of the Atlantic, waiting for the wind to change and the black flies to get blown back out to sea when the plane went down.

Kilpatrick on the artist’s political responsibilities (these are apparently multiple): Hate has more borders than I can muster into the capability of a vision. That’s why I scream in short bursts. 

For all the hours we’ve spent with strangers, all the conversations and shared stories, we ask no one’s name—until now.