Life isn't cruel. / In the moment we begin / there reaches / down / a tiny hand into / our lone, brief cell. That tiny hand / sets a timer / into our not-yet-formed / body:
I can hear it. I don't look back, but I can hear it. A giant wave crests behind me. The sound deafens like the roaring of a jet engine. The wave unseen forces me down and I feel my lungs filling with black water...
Tallboys suited up in paper bags are plentiful. Wisps of smoke from casually attended cigarettes form thick clouds in the humidity. Conditions render the late play into a test of endurance.
You've probably / never heard / of Los Angeles, / California. Still it's not just another / shit town in / a shit desert on a shit stretch of / highway. Things happen / here.
An envelope was licked. / No, not licked, / but she peeled back the plastic strip / then smoothed the chaste adhesive, / firmly and with intent, / against the envelope's steady fibers, / sealing the deal.
When snow meets salt, we are left with neither, just residue, like the residue under my window-pressed palm. Heaven-sent is now simply a piece of shit, stuck to the cold window of a dimmed and dead Hollywood Video.