842 1 1
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I should have worn shorts.
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9371
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Carl finished his beer, burped, crushed the aluminum can on the floor with his foot. “Oop, now we’re outta beer.”
“Alright, let’s send the dog.”
They did. They sent the dog. The first time Luther trotted down the sidewalk. The next time, Henry let t
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26942
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The door of the Continental opened an old man, a true geezer, stepped out, scratched his baked potato-shaped head. He was wearing sky blue polyester pants, Velcro shoes, a white striped polo that accentuated his man boobs and turkey neck. This man hunched
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22585
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we drank all the beer in the world, then we made the lights low and lower, and lower somehow more than that everything got fuzzy and sidelong vivid everytime we threw a dart it hit nowhere near a target but, we weren't really trying anyway we were just kids who'd…
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16042318
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a poem about an abduction in my NYC neighborhood
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25944
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I like to think of Bukowski and meknocking back beers in some downtown LA bar, Buk telling me some tale of ordinary madness (“Man, you shoulda seen the big old ass on her, I loved to hang onto it while we fucked.”) as I stare, nodding, at…
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5121
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Then Diane was following Luke down the highway, her shoes filled with rainwater.
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7411
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I took this workshop once. A Life Fulfillment Seminar provided by J___ Mutual Funds. That was the kind of thing the guy talked about: Motivational Factors putting you Over the Top.
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82511
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The old-timers at the Working Man’s Club wear a sheen of indifference every Wednesday night. Beneath the wafting, cresting mountains of burning cigarettes smoke, the train-track rattle of dominoes chipping at the dark wood tables in the corner, the consta
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11972
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I suppose to someone unfamiliar with the writing process like Marlene, it looked as if a bomb had gone off in one of those new-age literary bars where people gather to read poetry and drink beer in an effort to introduce a little excitement into their liv
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13862517
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The scent of fresh cut grass./
The idiot sense of accomplishment/
mowing the lawn can bring.
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831110
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Nothing feels more like summer than a watermelon war.
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12101312
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screw everything, youth is plinko
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78712
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Tom wasn’t crying.
A few snowflakes, the first of the season, flittered down and landed on Elizabeth’s new headstone, christening it. Tom didn’t have his topcoat, and he never buttoned his suit. He tried not to shiver. Lynn lifted her face from Tom’s c
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111344
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If Single Stroke Seven were a cocktail, it would be a Bloody Mary made of one part Worcestershire sauce, the other part gas station vodka, and ketchup and hot sauce packets swiped from fast food joints. Chill with ice crystals chiseled off freezer walls,
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