excerpt

Genre Urban Arts: "Hives Like Cotton Bulbs ”

Terror. Every morning lit with. Someone to trust has ceased being a fantasy. The way people felt now was none of my business, so I let it go; yet the yellow curled post-it remained behind my desk. When one of them wanted to spring clean my house, I let her. Nostalgia Jones was famous in her own rite, for the Developmental Theory of Supra-Acceptance. Most of them stayed but a month, upon reading what Was she became gone and Jonny Cash’s rendition of Reznor played on loop. What had I become? I didn’t know, but it was not aimed, just general pendulous momentums and willfulness. On occasion I wouldn’t remember their names, so “hon” was ubiquitous, until at the Circle K the girl said that was offensive. Pardon madame. So now I’m a whore? There was little winning left for me, my days were in the belly of the locusts. Millennials at war with a culture that I tasted, touched, and smelled. The last time I said the n word had come and gone and my vernacular leaned heavily left but bereft of weight. Just appearance. Myspace squared.