Link to previous installment “Move bitch!” — But before I could like even try my very best to get out of his way the middle school skateboarder had already kickflipped off the top of the steps, had already spun himself 360 degrees, had already taken off his ANARCHY 99 T-shirt…

Link to previous installment 6:15 AM or so. In the smog, in the dark, a post-9/11 pomegranate sun begins its totally epic ascent up the American mountaintop. Slivers of pinkred light seep into the apartment, the ceiling vents trembling with bacon puffs, with sausage gusts. And while free-range eggs are…

Link to previous installment I stared at the screen. I stared at my laptop screen and yawned the afternoon away. I was like totally tired, totally comatose. Plus I still couldn’t like actually believe I’d made it into work this morning after staying up all night with Precious. (We made…

Link to previous installment “Today’s the day I fucking ask her!” — This is like seriously the one and only thought racing through Giacomo’s brain as he elbows his way though the revolving glass doors and barges into the translucent Coliseum with a double thumbs up to the one-eyed security…

Link to previous installment Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale . . . When I’m like totally done with my very, very relaxing breathing exercises, a window of light warming my face, I blink open my eyes and uncross my legs. Then I stand up slowly, like very…

Link to previous installment Responding to a ‘possible shots fired’ call an NYPD squad car floats down the darkness visible of 23rd Street — a harsher than harsh spotlight swiveling from side to side, side to side across Manhattan’s unrepentant underbelly. On the look out for that one extremist thief…

Link to previous installment Scalpels glinting across their sterile glasses They lay me down on my twin-sized cot and start reading me my progress report. Ten, twenty, thirty minutes lecturing me on the results of my latest psychotextual evaluations. On the clinical hermeneutics of my calligraphy and the statistical significance…

Link to previous installment Twentysomething breaths down under the Queensboro Bridge, where the Island Kingdom swirls into homogenous obscurity, ugly florescent lights are flickering on and off, on and off like swaying cigarette lighters at a classic rock concert, at a sold-out arena, the steel ceiling gushing tears of unrequited…

Link to previous installment Cement and rollercoaster-sky trading places, flipping views, the massive shockwave ripping through the rain and there like definitely wasn’t time to duck or hide or pray or nothing as shop windows shattered, car alarms squealed like soon-to-be slaughtered cattle, and my superlong legs were violently swept…