White Liquor

I was looking out onto the ocean there was a opera house next to it. I was on a green grass hill

Under a southern California morning cloud canopy, Frank and me are following Nina and her boyfriend Joe up the 605 freeway to Alhambra to score some acid. Joe whips a ’64 Rambler American in and out of lanes like a fucking maniac. I do my best to keep up as he races onwards. Sometimes he’s five or six car-lengths ahead. It’s almost like he’s trying to lose us.

After work Jimmy and I walk into a student opening in the Lubalin Gallery. The place is made up like some kind of a southwestern circus with heavy rodeo overtones. Hay covers the hardwood floor and a fake wooden bull hangs from ropes dropped through the opening of a circus tent above as warped calliope music floats throughout the space.

“Can I have a hit?” “No!” “Can I have a hit?” “No!” “Can I have a hit?” “FUCK YOU!”

  An Ode to Heraclitus It’s true that nothing stays the same, the lead singer taking over the former crooner’s place, learning of death on a late Friday night,

A frosty afternoon, in floating fog, off a main road covered by ice, both sides of grass thick with frost,

Sammy Potts took another long, lustful look at the five beautiful numbers in his palm. He had finally fucking done it, after what seemed like an eternity of playing the lottery. He ran his free hand over his three-day stubble, creating a light burning sensation on his face; anything to clear his head momentarily. He let out a grotesque, guttural belch