"…something like the supervisor of an entire team of political agents…"
Cecil Vortex they’re chatting in front of the register lit softly by streetlight and if you only saw the look on his face her back to you her hands on her hips straight black hair sliding over casual tilt you’d never guess she was an eighty-year-old widow.
espresso, green tea. I mean, seriously. How much more married can you be?
There’s an all-new audio-fun episode ready for your easy-downloading goodtimes over at ye olde Monkey Vortex Radio Theater. Drop by and check out The Winsor McCay Sketchbook: Money, written by Tony “King” Jonick and starring Bill “also King” Cassel” and Alana “Lady-King” Guy Dill. And remember: “It’s the most fun you can legally pack into … Read more
please don’t call on me. I’m writing poetry.
Trying to cover the three of us with one umbrella. My naked hand out for a cab full-body soaked as that car roared by and I was wet and cold and pissed. Then giving up counting our change to catch the crosstown bus climbing onboard paying our fare and me surprised to find it half-empty … Read more
I think most of us have been there at one time or another. I know I have. And I don’t mean that metaphorically either. Here’s a piano/vocal song about those times, and what we were thinking. And maybe even a little about what we were feeling. Standing there. All banana-handed. It’s less than one meg, … Read more
Yesterday I really let him jump on me let him throw himself into me like some red-headed salmon and me the current his feet slapping the waves. He was laughing, slap-laughing and flying, slap-flying. And then I was the sand and he was the ocean and he stretched me apart and he wore me down … Read more
When it’s all clouded over thick, sheep’s belly wool blocking out stars and sky you have to think: Shit! We’re screwed! Now we’ll never see the aliens when they come to eat our brains out.
He talks in a low hum with no air between the words. He fills all the space. He fills all the space. Hefillsallthespace. He’s like crickets.
He sat down sobbing into his hands. 50 cents and he wanted them to give him a dollar for it. Retarded. “I hate math.” And I just wanted to have lunch. Then he stood, bearded burly Thor retarded. “I hate math!” again looking back through his beard over one thick shoulder. And he thundered off.