The Pitter Patter
I need something else, something other than the low-down hum of silence that’s blowing through my wide-awake bedroom like the ghost of all the roads I never took, the heater dead, the night frozen stiff at six below zero. I’m lying here in this fever-cabin with the taste of my favourite Mexican restaurant, Las Iguanas,
Money from Botswana
the night moves quiet, no goddamn noise, no mercy—just MK slipping through the shadows like a drunk looking for one last bottle, decreed from some exile hole, dragging the armed fight deep into those white zones where the streetlights quit years ago, and the spear of the nation slides in clean, a rusty blade shoved