Corey is teaching me how to shoot his father’s gun. We haven’t got bottles or cans to shoot because Corey’s dad would notice anything missing from his liquor cabinet. He keeps that locked up tighter than the guns. So we shoot the trees in the backyard.
The 45th President of the United States and I went to Baskin Robbins. I got a mint chocolate chip milkshake and the 45th President got a hot fudge sundae with chocolate ice cream. I grabbed some napkins and we sat by the window. I slurped at my shake and the 45th President shoveled his hot
The poems I prefer to read are by writers who have been dead for at least fifty years. The poems remain venomous, but the writers don’t care if you put them in a tank and feed them mice, or sever their heads with a shovel and cure their bodies in tequila. The poems I prefer
First my step-mother died, and then my father started talking about his new friend Lamar. Lamar collected rocks for a schist garden, bottle-raised a bear cub till it was time to let it go wild, put his boot on the dark side of the moon. It’s cute, my wife said, that your dad has an
A small two-bedroom across the street from a shooting range. They’ve moved east to escape California and the wildfires that claimed two of their houses. He manages the local record store. She spends sullen afternoons doing voice work in her home studio—radio commercials and jingles, mostly. Every time he leaves home, she says, “Don’t get