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She said, baby, I'm as sad as fuck,
and I said, honey, that's just the way
some of us are born;
it's our gift, our lifestyle.
Those other folks, they never really learn
how to sing,
they've never been to the place
where real music is born.
They've never knocked back the sorrow of the years
like a cheap wine and chased it
with a shot of something
beautiful and lost
while listening to the secrets
the moon tells
when it's too drunk
to know what it is.
When big darkness finally comes to claim us
and the world blooms with the truth of it
those other folks will be lost and frightened,
they'll curse their gods and everything else
but you and me, we'll get our tickets punched
and stride right into the heart of it
like it was our living room.
Poem of the Week
who have experienced
on a large
i tell raif
i think my
might be dead
haven't seen her
& her car hasn't moved
for two weeks.
you would smell it
passing me a plate
of triangular shaped bread
slathered in jam.
Story of the Week
DARLEEN SQUEELED into the empty spot as soon as the gleaming white Mercedes pulled out. "We got lucky," she told Montana. "Even on a Monday night, this lot is killer."
Montana rolled her big blue eyes. "Whatever."
The eleven year old had better things to do, like text her friends. Incessantly, as if she had a tic. The kid hadn't wanted to shop tonight, but Darleen insisted. This was their first Christmas without Paulie and the girls needed to stick together. Darleen's ex had been nasty lately and mediation had hit a cement wall. Montana wasn't aware how dangerously close they were to losing access to Paulie's vast and unreported wealth.
Montana sighed dramatically as she yanked open the door of the Porsche Cayenne and tumbled out. She didn't pause in her texting.
Darlene checked her face in the rearview mirror. The most recent fat transfer had been wildly successful. She loved her new lips. Grabbing her Gucci bag, she hopped out of the front seat.
Her daughter trailed her into the mall, thumbs flashing on her phone keypad.