It’s north a bit, the mountains brown and pink behind it. The dirt, the scrub brush, all things dry and ready, smell like tinder. Like an unlit match. Things creak out here that you can’t see. Call out across
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Author: The Helix
“I miss the rain,” he said. Him being from where I’m from in upstate New York, where gloom is like a comforter. And both of us here now, in Los Angeles, having missed each other by twelve years or
I might have prayed, but I don’t remember. There were three of them in the truck, their sick slick, raw chicken faces, shining. They held position next to me. There was no one else. No one but us, and
Tiny jeweled pawn, all eyes, mouth and legs half-sprung for jumping. You could have been a radio star if the dice hadn’t rolled the radio’s way, eyes closed, a crooner swaying in an unseen green tuxedo. Instead you crouch
In G’s basement growroom, the LED full spectrums run pink with Miss Sour Diesel budding crystal like the top of Mt. Hood. Miss Gorilla Glue #4 bushes wide with thick, dark leaves smiling. A couple more weeks on the
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