Damn community-meeting suckin up smoke-time. My B-time. It all just a waste of time. Staff don’t know nothin, nohow. Look at Mr. Eric up there tellin us about scams. Watch out for the Magazine People. They out there, tryin to get you.
A girl watches her father through the screen door, a pack of Kools and short glass of whisky beside him. He faces the fields and the woods beyond him. Bobwhites call in the distance. He calls back to them, a high mournful whistle, cigarette smoke curling around his buzzcut, tight ears shining in the porch light.
My favorite story was when Jesus met that guy, and he said, You’re possessed, and the guy says, Yeah. Jesus isn’t like most people though, who would probably just leave, go home or cross the street or something. Get away from that guy! Jesus is okay with it.
Dolan preaches a devil’s sermon. This starved man. This bone cage for black heart. Thirteen searchers circle him in the blizzard’s aftermath. Half his congregation is snowblind, pupils glare-blown wide.
When I dream of the floods, we are sinking. We’re sinking because my tiny arms can’t carry your fat little body. If it weren’t for how short your limbs are, we’d be the same size. Those hams keep weighing us down.