He had electric hair that stuck up around his head like tendrils
She wrapped her legs tightly around his waist
She wrapped her legs tightly around his waist
He had not meant to get so beastly drunk
Like he slit his wrists in a bathtub and the blood is all over the water
Under her careful hand, a spatter of stars—phosphor blue—arc from the curve
She stood on tiptoes, holding the trunk of the tree for balance
He looked down at his body and drew in a sharp breath
He could feel the blade of an ax pressing against the top of his head
He woke happily spent with bird breath
Alone, a paper airplane flying under flowering dogwood branches
—
Curtis Blazemore has been on the planet far too long, publishing various works in between having bad luck and making people rethink their faith in humanity. No matter. He sees sentences in the exhaled smoke and scribbles furiously. He hopes someday to be able to afford a Greyhound bus ticket to Graceland.