Some years later. He pulls the peacoat collar up over his ears and, head down, takes heel to the bottom of the street. Folk still whisper as he passes, but less so these days. They grow old, they float away, they die. He lives with the memories of that night; the sky more white star … Continue reading The Lookout.
Had he never misplaced the mojo, he may, he reasoned one evening, have been able to keep a keener eye on his star. But, he sensed, it had fallen. He came to this late. Drew scant detail. Reason, as such, eluded. He dreamed a nearfuture pocket of his being patted. Mojo? He looked up in … Continue reading Dim Star, Mojito & Mojo Rising.
The young lounge the hours on the benches of the dead: their carefully careless hair skew-wiffs caps. Scratched and battered skateboards slung at their outstretched sneakers. Energy drinks clutched in one hand, handset in the other. Sickly, sticky-blue smiles on insect faces. You rarely see anyone riding a board these days. The older guys, sure. … Continue reading The Ancient Skate Punk.
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