Author: caricaturapress

Live in a small midwestern town where a train chugs by every 10 minutes. enjoy whisky and wine. lust after good writing. what else do you want from me?


older now. gray is peaked dream in
a vanity mirror fare. a tweezer peck
fit in once reddish brown beard; of
and preservation. I am just

simple farmhand in dust
bowl. single egg resting

in rusty wire. yolk hollow in
tap. somehow

six foot hatched and resting
in tan leather chair; the one
that fits neatly under hairpin
desk, under typewriter covered in

skin cells circulated
off of shiftless

a postal employee in Chicago puts a letter in slot

(frosted glass of neat keeps
me perfect)

put my grandmother’s
letter to my father back in a
ziplock. it’s seven pages of
cursive, and gives an intimate

at my current curse. all the
new truths inked and double sided,
numbered. she was
adopted. she was a terrible
mother. she was dying. I
don’t remember her. she
begged him to forgive.

-seven aged pages once
stuffed into a pure envelope
with a blue and red border, postage
pressed and dropped into
a slot on some
corner in ’72 somewhere in
Lyndora Pennsylvania. carrier in
Chicago suburb slides into slot-

I don’t remember her, but now
I know why
I’ve always been plagued by
a vague and native

cold, packed rice

soon, I said to him. the one wearing
the same dark blue racing jacket
fished out of a green bin. the one
with the same white plastic
hairs jetting from his reddish
brown beard.

soon, he said. the leaves
will again howl in a
light tornadic scrape. you
will remove brittle bi-color
blades from your shoulder, your
thinning hair, under
boot. change
good, he said.

soon, it will be another go
round under an illuminated
light gray. and

just like the ex-lover, this
will be temporal and musings
of her/this season will be
like a middle aged man driving
his Jaguar middle
lane in Newport Beach to get

sushi from that place that
always has a table ready just


it was this time yesterday that I
swiveled in my tan leather chair and
looked at my curled worn brown leather
belt on the rug. I moved my eyes to
the bathroom door frame, tried the
belt on, way above obvious usage. swung
the tail end over top of white door, closed
and tugged through an inch of apartment
repaint tension squeak rub to find that
it would stay put. ultimately

unloosened it all and
to bed.

a line of thunderstorms had recently
passed through, burst of cold
air rushed between greenery, erasing
a few days of oppressive heat. I
stood out on balcony, as the sky
became like gentle hand to a
sorrowful stalk; a cotton
candy pink swathed above a
sherbet orange. and in teary
a text buzzed, a picture from my
sister, three year old
niece in toothy smile, her hair
braided like
her favorite mermaid. I

a rolling lavender field, stretching
towards the warmth;

again perennial.

been meaning

I’ve got a christmas tree in a box in
my kitchen that I’ve been meaning to
throw out months ago. I’ve got a
purple discolored toe that I smashed
into the leg of my red barstool which
I’ve been meaning to put in a splint a
couple of days ago. been meaning
to do a lot of things lately, but

bourbon keeps me pacified like
child in some state that I’ve
moved away from a couple of times-

been meaning to move away again
for awhile now.

another midwestern summer’s night

it’s six thirty and the sun is still
high on this fourth day of summer. my
brains bake with little water and more
bourbon and an oven at four fifty with
a homemade pizza circular, stationary,

I sweat, type. I
cook, thinking about ice sheets, and dream
of a self, dull blade in hand,
shearing off the tops to fill my glass
and spreading my breath;
a dense fog, wafting
glacious and slowly filling a

castor and pollux

you’ve always been conjoined, gemini.

a starling’s beak dipped in the spiral
of sprawl born in instantaneous flash
a mash stagger of cotton draped flesh in
mesh of concrete, steel and sewer.


ever wins out as gravity shrinks your
final doorway pencil mark back down
to the floor boards, to



oh, friday. it was one of those
rare American Spirit in
cratered husk, a
three thirty am flicker combust of
steadfast thought, fucking

grow up! groped my depressed
delve- this a few hours
after having my
cock in a strange woman’s mouth, her
bent black
bodysuit. envisioned the

really I did. felt that warm wave
wash over me and two days later
it keeps, like
canned food, or jam, or a coward’s
perceived courage.


so, on the eve of my vapid
vasectomy, I clean my hitter with
a bent prong fork and twist in
the last of eighth. I put down
the last of the whisky in green
sleeve, and manhandle the cork,
the last pop of
mutt wine. as

freshly peeled sweet
potatoes bake in oven to stoned
crisp, I write this. and sure,
I may have gambled
and drank this sunday away, but
like upright to ape, tomorrow
I’ll change.