A trail of smoke seeped out of the bottle like a genie’s tail. This simple geeb was somehow the result of every single decision I had ever made in life, the mistakes and successes, and it was now my task to ingest these choices and accept them.
It’s what it is: my life is a raccoon wedding officiated by a toaster. It’s what it is: my life is a dream inside a burrito inside a courtroom. It’s what it is: my life is a therapy in meme format. It’s what it is: my life is a series of messenger pigeons suiciding elsewhere.
“Let me take a picture of you.” Jill whispered over the Jungle as the night closed out with waning dancefloor attendance. I remembered the first few times we’d made out, it felt very familiar, alarming, like we had danced before...
we wear Black skin in America we know every moment spent outside we are endangered we are exposed we carry the tension of looming threat tight in our chests
And didn't you make all these promises That you wouldn't be quiet That you're biding your time That your cunning and willingness beg a time and a place
No, there are no villains in Crockford's poetry. Just American consumers, perpetually on the verge of great leaps into radical conclusions or of the dark realization that there is no peace, only war. For now.
Walter had been keeping his face down and lifted it then. He’d endured, while in jail, a compulsory haircut and the acne remnants, fully visible, were accompanied by newly inflicted bruises — obviously something else had happened in jail as well.
