another $20, thank you very much.

art imitates life, life imitates art, i imitate safe cliches

various, 2003/2004.

Blacklist

Davey and I stand at the edge of the McCarthy garden, and smoke cigarettes he hand-rolled in his studio that afternoon. His hair reflects gold in the fountain. This is actively waiting, he says, scuffing his foot along the edge of what the Hollywood Ten said fifty years ago, carved into significantly thick stone tiles. Everything in life should be done actively. But I'm not listening, because the lights have begun to trail on the gas station across the street,
and when I turn back, Davey's found a bullet in the gravel.



John Milton

My English professor rests his hands on his stomach between making points, an exultant gray-haired brown Buddha
at the head of the table, waxing critical about the loss of paradise.

"This is the most explicit warning." rest. "The archangel Raphael will give them." rest. "Foreshadowing their inevitable fall." rest.

He frowns, the vertical grooves in his forehead deepening canyons in his dark skin as though he hasn’t read this book before, as though he doesn’t know what will happen. He strokes his leather brown neck with his left hand, gold wedding band somehow brighter against such age.