| messenger | novelist | husband | misanthrope | journalist | father | poet | uncle | designer | comic book writer | project manager | romantic | fan |
I’ve discovered that bourgeoise sisters don’t like me.
The affection I find is bracketedRead more
by stab wounds, stanzas and stretch marks.
Daughters of [...]
Evil to him who evil does.
“Someone please call 9/11 …”Read More
Never thought they’d see the day,
gleaming spires of commercial dominance,
lying shattered [...]
Don’t tell my wife.
Clock hands perpendicular in still of night,Read more.
and I’m trapped in vision of sweet love,
see sneaking out of [...]
Cool currents of air tiptoed across Josie’s dewy countenance as she rocked back and forth, her body moving in time with Billy. She scanned the bright, starry night as he huffed on top of her, her thoughts adrift with no real focus. She spared a moment to glance at Billy, hair like lengths of dirty straw, and make a pleased sound before resuming her stargazing.
It wasn’t that she didn’t like sex — that summer with Jerry, hitchhiking across the desert states grabbed her consciousness with a flash before just as quickly letting go — and Billy was a sweet guy who she’d probably end up marrying. He just didn’t have much going in the passion department, and she’d gotten used to that over the last five months they’d been together.
She smiled as she noticed Billy starting to whisper her name over Read more
The moonlight dodged its way through the bedraggled blinds like a soldier ducking for the last chopper leaving a firefight. It fell across the matted orange carpet and tumbled towards the stained bedspread, where Raphael Riley sat, observing it. He looked at his hands in this light, turned the over, this way and that, as if the moon’s illumination would reveal something he was unable to see in daylight. His breath escaped his chiseled form in a slow, deliberate sigh as the night wore on interminably.
Raphael stood up and looked around the solitary room. The creased and worn notepad had long since seen its last sheet of paper leave its grasp, but still it shone the logo of the Snooty Fox and scrolled the address and phone number of the South Central motel across its surface. Unusual blemishes — bodily fluids that wouldn’t wash out Read more.
The sound of breakbeats made the carpeted walls resonate, and Tonya Fitzgerald sat near the back of the curved bar, eyes closed, purse carefully tucked under her hands, swaying and smiling. She loved the sound of the drums, moving the song along as surely as a river kept a boat sliding along its channel. She risked a glance at her right wrist, and her numberless watch held its hands just past one thirty in the morning. “Looks like it’ll be another late night,” she sighed to herself, cursing another sunrise she’d probably miss.
She glanced over towards the door, and saw he was still watching. She’d seen him stumble when he saw her earlier, and immediately regretted another refusal she’d have to pull from her quiver. There was certainly nothing wrong with him — a tall, butterscotch man in a White cable-knit turtleneck Read more.
The African-American Scene in Los Angeles
From silk on Sunset to jeans and T-shirts on Imperial, from Navigators slow winding down Sepulveda to Cutlass coupes bouncing up Broadway, the Black experience in Los Angeles is extremely diverse. Heavily concentrated south of the 10, Black LA is everywhere and nowhere, the door standing ajar just off the main strip, always there but often forgotten. Home to Pulitzer nominees, liquor store managers with Southern accents, platinum-selling recording artists, terrifying criminals, and everyday, salt-of-the-earth Black folk; people quick to call you “partner” or “brother,” “dawg,” “fool” or “sir.” Read more.