I remember my mother dancing. I remember craning my neck to see her, tilting my head so far back that my eyes were in line with my heels, for when I was short and round and two-years-old, my mother was tall and translucent, and very beautiful and would have been twenty-one-years-old.
I follow you as you follow the one above you.
You take the cliff, the trees, the deer on your wings.
I am behind you watching the ground over which we fly.
If you turn
to the Mississippi
river, you’ll see
On the corner of 16th Street and Peralta, in front of the New Jerusalem Baptist Church, is an antediluvian dopeman who will give you balloons of brown powder in exchange for exotic cheeses. For a pound of Jersey Blue you can expect at least three balloons; a pear-shaped Caciocavallo Podolico could get you six, possiblyContinue reading ““The Wheel of San Geronimo,” an Essay by David Simmons”
See all. Father, Mother, Son.
weight and wait.
where my high school best friend piles tithed hearts
in the pixelated hallow of her hands. She ascends
offerings — flat tummy tea, knee-length modesty, steamed
fruit flies suffocate
after i slip
flimsy white plastic
I stare at the ceiling
fan spinning, lazy,
my legs still shaking.
First was Neurotic Fake Woke Sadboi – nobody came and he refused to sell me weed when I wouldn’t have terrible sex with him again.