His mind became my closet, listening to all the acrimonious BS, at the Pentecostal show, By the laying his hands on my pillow case at 3 am—somehow the scent of bourbon and Cheetos linger. He pulled his pecker too many...

Consorts, walking the mausoleums at dusk—boots clicking against the cobbles where the dead have voices conversing with the granite, each stone a magnetof breathless secrets to honor infamy when one erases history, listening to theechoing of California fornication, riding...

From the bark of a sequestered oak,my tome-shanty, my wares,I never laid claimed to be a synonymor any other glamor to fame,by writing perfect words.Just a bookshop keeper with a mellow heartand a bobbin for a mind, spinning prose,poetic...