They say the full moon makes lunatics of us all and I agree when I look at it, floating through the chlorine. I decide that it controls more than just the tides. My hair latches onto my skull when I kick myself upright and I agree when I look at him as I’m treading water […]
It’s the little pills behind thick bars, the hurling whites and blues, the sweet veins of consumption; It’s that hard plastic taste, those light strips, bright frost, this mundanity in bloom; It’s her rubberband cry, her satin march, her chorus of keening tongues; It’s walking home, breathing in, gilded heat.
It scares me: asphalt taunting water (too close), a makeshift bridge (last week’s landslide), the wet-dark wood of a pit stop in the trees. And yet: as we’re raked back by gravel tides, as the damp outside slaps us around (a toy car on the mountain’s brim)— Morrissey still finds the time to whine and
I officially graduated from high school last Thursday, and after the fact found myself becoming nostalgic for the place I’m so eager to leave behind: the putrid yellow walls, the underclassmen who often seemed to lack basic motor skills, even the classes that bored me. Recently, I looked through my school-sanctioned yearly planners from the
Take a swig while you still can!
Photos to remember museums by . Parlor, Night Divinity Bobby v. The Man Lobby Shot After Dark
The sky is dark when I push— hard—the other boy and his blonde bowl cut streaming down fast like eager ribbons to the ground. Woodchips meet his scrawny knees, the soft thew in the palms of his hands, his ruddy cheeks. I watch him, small and pink— my friends, far below, scattering, sticky,
She rests in petals, light— the knotted red nose, melting lips, putty: portrait of grief. She watches fire wriggle, up— teasing straw, hair, skinning old teeth, skipping free. She breathes and smiles, sweet— the bear is dead; smoke purrs before newborn sky.
It’s a typical Wednesday night: taking out the trash has inspired a raccoon-like hunger in me, so I’m pillaging the kitchen for scraps. I’m also listening to “Say Anything (Else)”, a song (by the band Cartel) my friend just enthusiastically texted me about and insisted I listen to. It starts with the crackle of a
“Grabbing onto whatever’s around / For the soaring high or the crushing down” -Elliott Smith, “2:45 AM” His blue body was stiff long before it happened— a slice between bone, no hesitation. The case is cold but to me he’ll always be a sad man in a big house in Echo
