Rachel Kadinsky
Soft fingers on rolled paper, red lips waiting. I flip the lid of my old brass Zippo from ’86, the hinge sticking in the same old place, and I grind the wheel. A sooty flame whooshes up and bursts into life, a clichéd dance of orange and blue, the sting of the kerosene hitting the
The Corpse Flower
the horizon’s just a straight razor laid across the throat of the world, no curve, no mercy, just that thin bleeding line where sky fucks earth and nothing else moves. out there in the big empty, the desert, heat shimmers like cheap gin, and everything looks like it’s melting into a lie. the desert. her