Three chapters (autumn)

In the center of a large room there sits an oversized zinc tub. He walks towards it and goes to his knees at the rim. Looking through his reflection in the motor oil he finds there, he thinks:

            “I’ve never shot a gun…….I only travel West……… I own no cashmere…”

Why oil?


Slipping, pinned and stuttering along the bar stopping only long enough to whisper through my shoulder:

            “I’m good suicide”


At 17 miles per hour, the rock in the hub hit its stride and provided a steady percussive temper for our trip.

             “If we squint, it’s almost Paris”

At 32 it fell silent, trapped in its centrifugal fugue, spun out and desperate, waiting (like so, so many of us on that day) for a reason to yield.