driving route eighty-eight

in the space between working and not i lose myself essing and squiggling day and late on eighty-eight-- a kind of asphalt umbilical cord, connecting dawn and sunset--- wending way again...

Newspaper Hawker

  Herb limps down and up the cinders on the berm of Exit Ramp 2-A behind Perkins’ restaurant. He holds up The Intel. He is tired; he is sweaty! His dirty tennis shoes cry...

just another Warwood brat

just another Warwood brat, son of Clyde and Vera, running the streets with Moe, Rudy, Mario, Bill, and Ray near North 20th pacing the courts at the YMCA under his dad’s skeptical eye lettering in...