Amateur pilots draw detailed portraits
of the people that hurt them in the sky.
They look like caricatures you would
have someone sketch of you at the beach.
When they’re done they go get drinks with
their old friends that are constantly telling
them to do something more lucrative, and
some drunk girls in the booth behind them
start to kiss.
It’s so cold outside it feels like outer space.
Especially when the wind picks up and helps
you skate past all of the dark street signs that
you haven’t been awake to see illuminated in
months. There is a man doing acid behind the
hardware store and in his head he is talking to
something very tall and with fingers as long as
drinking straws.
A brother and sister scramble desperately to
put the house back together before their parents
return. They scrape the residue of the party
they threw into black plastic trash bags using the
sleeves of their sweat shirts. They are both still
coming down from all of the beer and weed, and
forget to check the bedrooms for any stragglers.
Someone old sits on the steps leading up to his
front door and stares mindlessly into the dark
woods in front of him. He is waiting for anything
to appear before him. Whether it’s one of his kids
finally returning home to visit, or the old bear he
watched kill his father when he was a child. He knew
the odds weren’t on the side of the latter, but he always
kept his rifle near him in case he ever got the slightest
chance to take a shot.
Teleporting Typewriter 