Asphalt

Asphalt

asphalt

Let’s hit the asphalt, run it to gravel, to dirt, to the open frontierlands at the edge of the world. Let’s get lost in the thickets, travel a million miles just to look in the mirror, you know how these there-and-back-again things go. Rev up the jeep, whip the dusty sheet off the morning sky, and take the open country through Wönderluste. Live off the land the map is not the territory hook up the jeep to the shooting stars sit back and keep all limbs inside the moving vehicle baby life is a rollercoaster And I Wanna Ride It All Night Long.

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The frame tilts on its side

The frame tilts on its side

the frame tilts on its side

The frame tilts on its side, all the way over and under the hills, through the woodlands, past the sailboats out fishing in that blue blue sky. I threw out the tablecloth and the table appeared underneath. Maidens a-singing waited on us, you and I, the both of us under that blue blue sky, in view of the woodlands, just beyond the rolling hills, rolling like sea billows and billowing smokelights. The Charger’s parked on the hilltop beside the great tree, hang a tire swing from the bough and flip on the lights, hang ‘em from that nightsky, it’s a picture.

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Prisonsong

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Let’s hit the asphalt, run it to gravel, to dirt, to the open frontierlands at the edge of the...

Hello is different.

No page numbers. No titles. No table of contents. 

It’s a cultural commentary, a protest against the conventional wisdom, and a call for something more.

Detective Kovski

Detective Kovski

detective kovski.

a short story

I  had just returned to my dusty corner on Ninth and Main, two floors up from the old afternoon coffee shop. I wish I could tell it to you like a noir piano, but it’s been a long three weeks and the ink in my pen’s about to run dry. There were abandoned spiderwebs in the corners of the plasterwall sardine-tin office and a big red spiderweb on the corkboard I wish I could’ve abandoned. I put up the tattered fedora on the wall and put my feet up on the desk, amid the milehigh stacks of paperwork and bureaucracy. Crime never gets any shut-eye in The Windy City, and yet that’s what pays the bills around here. I was just about to open the typewriter that’s seen better days when I heard a knock on the door.

 

Three of them, actually.

 

I let myself have a long sigh and a sip of coffee so black you would’ve needed technicolor to see it in film. The night train whistled faintly in the distance, and I could hear a roadster grumbling beneath my office.

“I know you’re in there Kovski, no use pretending.” The voice was angelic, the way Harry James makes a trumpet sing.

“The door’s always open.”

She turned the cold knob with a determined fermata and swung it open like a staccato that makes you jump out of your seat. “Is that so?” She had hair as dark as the darkest night, no stars. I can still remember it as clear as day.

“You almost hit Putter,” but I knew it was the wrong thing to say. Protecting the framed picture of my cocker spaniel looked like the last thing on her mind. I wanted to turn that lipstick frown of her’s around, it would’ve looked real nice, but she wasn’t about to have it. The only thing she was about to have was a cow.  She made a big deal of stomping over to my desk to drop the Tribune down in front of me. At least, it sounded like she was stomping, what with those red heels on.  She just glared at me, so I glared at the headline.

ART INSTITUTE’S MOST VALUABLE PIECE FOUND STOLEN.

She finally broke the silence. “This is the end of the line, Kovski. Burglary number nine, and we’ve got nothing.”

“I just got back from Colombia, where’s the welcoming party?”

“This is no time for fooling around. We’ve been unable to get in touch with you, and since you’ve been away on a goose chase, we’ve gotten nowhere.”

It wasn’t a goose chase. It was more of a duck hunt, but I was still trying to figure out if I was the duck.

I got in her black roadster and we pulled away from the curb, racing past streetlights flickering in the dark of the early morning.  I must’ve left my stomach back at Ninth and Main, because I felt a little dizzy when I got out of the automobile.

The stone steps looked sullen, but maybe it was just from the enormous figure standing at the top of them. The museum director greeted me with a handshake and a voice sterile of any geniality. He stopped gnawing on a thick cigar to talk to me.

“Detective, nine paintings have been stolen while you were away, and I need a man I can count on to get the job done.”

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Hello is different.

No page numbers. No titles. No table of contents. 

It’s a cultural commentary, a protest against the conventional wisdom, and a call for something more.

Take me in The Sienna

Take me in The Sienna

take me in the sienna

Take me in The Sienna, back to when we were kids and summer skies had nowhere to go but everywhere. Back when the backyard was the world and the world hadn’t gotten complicated yet, all the way back to the VHS player and the hallway stairs, back to I’m-sure-we’ll-make-do. Back when we’d taste the world and it tasted good, back when we’d stumble out in the dewlit mornings, stardust on the grass and fawns learning to walk, to run, to jump, to fly from the swing seat to the stars hanging from that sky. 

 

Take me back in The Sienna, back when we didn’t know shame. Take me back, back when Turtles and Patriots marched together, teaching us to hit a baseball, to catch a football, Shelter On The River. 

 

Innocence was not shattered in a million pieces back then.

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a short storyI  put my bags up on the conveyor belt and was reaching for my shoes when I saw him....

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I wish I could turn that stereo up, drown out all the static from space. Schemin’ For The Masses,...

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Why are we so far apart? Why don’t these tired arms sprout wings and carry me to you? SMS takes...

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Let’s hit the asphalt, run it to gravel, to dirt, to the open frontierlands at the edge of the...

Hello is different.

No page numbers. No titles. No table of contents. 

It’s a cultural commentary, a protest against the conventional wisdom, and a call for something more.