Rubbersoul1965

sure signs your son's pal is the son of satan He glares at me with his rum-red eyes. My son plays with his toy on the carpet below. His friend stands up and goes into the kitchen, his forked tail dragging across the tile with a dull scraping sound. I watch him closely with a priests concentration as he kicks over the kitchen table and chairs. "I have to call my dad so he can come pick me up" he says. Every time he utters a single, solitude syllable I glance his forked tongue. He picks up the phone out of its cradle, like an infant child and dials. I catch only the first three numbers. When he is done he rips the phone out of th

Knee Deep I'm sitting in traffic on the 215 Poetry is sitting in the bucket seat next to me with her cell phone pressed to her ear. She is so beautiful, and I can't help but notice the way the sun bleeds from her smooth red lips. We sit in a row, alone, a sentence that keeps shifting around. She doesn't notice I am staring at her. Wading shallow waters.  The breath before a plunge, and when you do, you break your neck on the flat stones at the bottom.

Gutter The gutter paper swims buy singing sea chanties avoiding the interception by the French fleet a crushed Marlboro pack under a film of fog and plastic, the H.M.S.   unfiltered