Sitting with Diego
the morning’s got its claws in me, a hangover squatting on my brain like a fat whore who won’t leave. there’s still a little whiskey humming in the veins, warm and evil, sloshing around in the empty tank of my unconscious, burning sweet. we talk the usual shit—love, life, the happiness that fucked off years
Little Bird
for Kari Jeppesen… I sat on the broken porch steps with a warm beer going flat between my knees, watching that mangy cat nailing the sparrow mid-air like it was nothing. the bird hit the concrete still flapping, one wing bent wrong, blood already leaking from its beak. cat pinned it gentle, almost tender, then
The Salty Dog
crank the fucking burner till the blue flame goes that sick blue, and throw in those greasy little capers, let them jump around like drunk bastards on a hot tin roof, anchovies too, those smug salty pricks strutting like they own the pot. slice the onions thin, onions crying their cheap tears, garlic stinking up