Time for me to fly from your gargantuan claws nest heavy in your squat tits like mountaintops sagging from overuse wrinkled neck rings numbering your years once a beauty displaying to the gods naked dance lines into the woods now… you’re just shit-faced featherless and bald. ————- Stephen Jarrell Williams was born in Virginia, his
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As Mr. James walked into the airport terminal after passing through Colombian customs, he spotted a hastily scrawled cardboard sign with the words: Marrying Wifes. The sign was being held by a thin man wearing a chauffeur’s uniform and a New York City policeman’s cap. Mr. James edged crabwise, dragging his suitcase behind, and said
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“Um, Professor Defrancesco, I don’t think the flux capacitator is on right?” “It’s fine son, it’s just fine, now go on with your symposium presentation!” “Um…OK…um, Professor Defrancesco, is it supposed to be that color? “That’s perfectly natural, son–” Ten minutes later, after Jenny Blotnick is rushed to the hospital with a flux capacitator lodged
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Motherfuckers gotta represent. Yeah, I’m White, so what? White like a piece of Xerox paper dunked in a barrel of bleach. I’m White like vanilla ice cream if you take the flavoring out. I mean, there’s not even any vanilla in my shit, fake or natural. I’m just pure no-color fucked-up White. I’m so White
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When people ask me where I live, I tell them that I’m a professional nomad. It’s not so far from the truth. Such is the life of a non-equity actress, hopping from actors’ housing in Clarksville, TN to rented beach houses in Ocean City, NJ, for the sake of the stage. I’ve never minded the
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