It was Butte. Or Billings. Or both. The interstate was closed. Or was he on a train that was delayed, or maybe a bus? Or maybe too many good Richard Hugo poems? His mind slogged like a queenless chessboard, a queenless colony, and if hearses were U-Hauls, redwing blackbirds would ride sheep.
The writer’s reputation preceded him (of course, the opposite is also true). “It only took a plagiarized text from the underside of the washing machine lid for them to drop the curtain of invisible ink upon my oeuvre like the end of act one of Der Meistersinger, and suddenly they’re sending me back to Seattle with dropcloths and a stool kit? Oh, the darksome snakes! Oh, the mental shorepound!”
A quire of foolscap, love become blunt light, buys the next round. The Dutch marabout as seen on TV. sells his last gris-gris. Mooi, dank je wel, and with superhuman strength in one motion propels his wheelchair backwards and out onto the street. A cry goes up and his groove suite give chase, back in the hunt, caparisoned in cardboard box helmets with cutouts for eyes. The writer settles his tab and joins the agitated scrum, to him it’s like the running of the bulls.
What’s that? You never cared for his writing? Isn’t that kind of like saying you never cared for a juicy porterhouse steak with garlic mashed potatoes? I’m sure some folks would agree, but a whole lot more would think you're crazy! His writing is just that: meat and potatoes. Honest, basic, full of taste, and satisfying.
Two brothers, their two sisters, plus a girl cousin. The oldest brother and the oldest sister and the cousin each held a puppy. Free puppies. Free puppies. Free puppies.
A turbid fog, grown larger than the wings it flew in on, roiling slowly. Nneka and I spliced inside on the sofa, evolving from numeric to alpha, she reading Chester Himes, me staring at the sledge hammer and the power washer, birthday presents from her, resting in front of the fireplace window like pets who had a busy day. If lieder were horses, Schubert would have taken the bus. To Butte. Or Billings. Nneka’s toes are like eyelashes against my soles.
I LOVED MY SANDWICH
“I thought the food was probably going to be ‘just ok’ however when my Breakfast Croissant was delivered, I was pleasantly surprised. It was perfectly warmed slightly crunchy on the outside and the ham was generous as was the provolone and tomato which blended together into yummy bites. I loved my sandwich. My husband chose the waffles and he gave me a bite - they were warm and had just enough syrup, whipped cream and fresh strawberries. The guys had the Breakfast Bagel and the Breakfast Sandwich and the pitaya bowl. These are picky eaters and they all commented several times how much they enjoyed their food.”
Yeah? Then here, love this---and I emptied a hundred rounds into them---her, her husband, and the guys, back and forth, right and left like I was hosing down a driveway. DAKKAA DAKKAA DAKKAA DAKKAA DAKKAA DAKKAA DAKKAA DAKKAA DAKKAA. Go ahead and Yelp your assess off now.