These are two Little snippets of writing from the past few days – clearly unfinished, just wanting to put everything out there.

The two of them walked into the Dairy Queen I was treating as a cafe – curled with a book in a booth – it’s the closest thing to a cafe in Rapid City, South Dakota. Their skin coated in tattoo, the kind that seem to be ripped pages from poorly done comic books glued to their arms. Their bodies bounced strangely, as if they have too much electricity in them to limit their movements to the horizontal. The man had a large bleeding spot behind his ear, and as he ordered some oversized blizzard he dug his fingernails into it, trying to reach inside his skull-


The rain hung from the clouds like loose threads- the sky itself unraveling Beneath the weight of the water-


Nude beach conversations

He was a black boy from Cleveland Ohio. But I met him in New Orleans. And I couldn’t decide whether not start this by calling him a black boy or a black man. the way he asked me questions about my sexuality made me want to call him a man, but the size of the shoulders and how we had to coax him into eating anything made me want to call him boy.

I asked what was special about him. He told me, “the only way i know¬†my father is dead.” He said I wrote A poem about how my momma broke and the way my stepfather’s knuckles were dimpled with use. And I said no, I’ve heard that story before. He said I’m gay, and my momma asks me how many boys have you been with, and I reply, I pick a new one to accompany each meal Like a wine pairing. He says I’ve never worn A condom. And I say, yes, I have heard that one before, too.

he tells me about the first time he felt proud. He wrote a poem about learning his father’s cheekbones from the pile of brimmed hats left in the attic, his hands from the box of dish towels.