Cousin Paul has his spleen out. He gets transfusions as often as I get pistachio milkshakes. Every Christmas, he comes poorer and sicker and angrier. The rivers of veins swell close to the surface, especially near his right temple. His nostrils are permanently flared. I don’t know if these are symptoms. Every Christmas he’s a
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“I love football, fuck you.” “I love football, fuck you,” my wife barks at me simply for making a humorous, although disparaging, remark about her silly Patriots Football Team. Beginning to wonder if perhaps her focus, allegiance, and obvious attraction to these youthful macho hunks is something I should be concerned about. . Way back
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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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surveillance is heavy. you can never make it. where do they come from, plucking shoots of hopes, prying into the scales? nobody knows. they are the space-crawlers. they are the attic-thumpers. they live in furniture. they eat dust and pain. they resemble dead spiders. they could be invulnerable. contortionists changing the shape of ours-to-come, they
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Sleepover weekend at the Websters’, traveling carnival on the school playground; fireworks, cotton candy, staying up late. Our ride spinning like a pinwheel, more like a slingshot – cables snapped, women screamed, bodies flew a mile a minute. I came to in a circle of enquiring faces, flashing red lights, next to a wall of
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