Uncle Patrick
the bar hasn’t changed, and neon still bleeds a sickly red down the walls. and the smoke hangs in the air like it’s got nowhere better to be. I’m on the stool next to the empty one, the corner spot where Uncle Patrick used to sit with a Campari and Soda glowing in his fist
Lucky Luke
I dragged myself along the canal path through snow that rose to the ankles, pure and untouched, no one across it yet. the cold cut at my face with a slow, steady insistence, the way old debts come back in the dark. ahead, one yellow smear of light leaked from a porthole, warm-looking, false-looking, the
The High-Hat Solo
blow by blow, the drummer’s foot stomps that pedal like she’s kicking the world in the ribs, cymbals crashing silver in the dim, hi-hat, chick-chick-chick in a wild solo to nowhere and everywhere. there she plays under the hot spotlight, the girl with the brushes and the furious heart, beating it out while the room
Lemon and Poppyseed
the tube’s jammed tighter than a whorehouse on payday, bodies mashed up like sardines in a tin that’s been kicked down the stairs one too many times. they say lambs to the slaughter get more room to wiggle before the knife, and right now I believe it. I’ve got some poor bastard’s armpit parked under