That one summer Saturday late-morning breakfast over and you hop into your father’s truck, not the company one but the shit one, the one before company money, the one that smelled like high school beer, self-changed oil, cigarettes of a time your father wasn’t your father. The hot breeze blows in from cracked windows and…

Conversation of a River EPIGRAPH “Late Fragment,” by Raymond Carver And did you get what you wanted from this life, even so? I did. And what did you want? To call myself beloved, to feel myself beloved on the earth. He says: “When I die, I’ll still be reading this poem to you in this…

Fireworks The dog whimpers and you slowly kick your legs down to the concrete floor like an old hinge. The irregular, but constant flash and pop of idiocy rages outside as you pull on the haunches of your dog from underneath your bed. If only your dog liked scotch as much as you do.

In the future cars not only drive themselves but start conversations with each other in primitive Morse code: Honk – high beams – left turn – honk means, “stop driving like a douche-bag” I think. Their horns squawk with mechanical pubescence testing limits of horsepower, torque, love. The cars get mean, shed mufflers on speed…