the lady at the met knew my name and that was scary.
quahogs that i'd fought all day for, steaming them open over a grill kept alive with regular pours of lighter fluid. in the end the quahogs tasting like lighter fluid.
shlitz from across the street, $2.50 and tasting like soap.
curvy hippie girls with ball jars as coffee mugs, golden morning sun in their bed-hair, catching the trolley during wintersession.
rice's ass, getting that angle where it was just his ass, having to draw it for two minutes.
homestay mom's brittile skin, the ceaseless tick tick tick of her lighting up again at the stove, that lone metal plug in her mouth when she didn't wear her dentures.
basta basta basta, bomba bomba bomba! homestay dad, emphatically miming american bombs: his good hand tugging the air, pounding the table, then round fingers opening like a flower.
african prostitutes in sicily, dispersing at the sight of a cop car.
No comments:
Post a Comment