I’ve grown to like living at the bottom of a dumpster in an alley outside of Sizzlers. It’s not as unpleasant as one might think—there’s never a shortage of food, and people can’t call you trash if they are
“I just sleep with men,” he says, “I wouldn’t date one.” We sit in my 1999 Mercury Mystique, air chapping our faces from the heater. Snow melts as it meets my warmed windshield. Him: twenty-five, bleached blond, an angular
From his geodesic dome on the Monterey Peninsula Turquoise Seth speaks on the phone though time to the Desert Fathers The voice of one crying in the wilderness Seth speaks but is not heard Because he’s too hip