LettuceEat

Dead on Fort Crook The radiator plumes. I've overheated, it seems. I flip on the hazards and sit while ablebodied cars and trucks shark and minnow past.  The senses are heightened in times of forced immobility.  I notice, for one thing, that the street where I've died is called Fort Crook, that the sign is crooked, that forms do not persist when you are dead in traffic, they appear and vanish like hand tricks, irrelevant and new forever.  I light a cigarette. Cigarettes, too, share this newness and irrelevance when viewed from the present. Where did they all go? Stalactites in my lungs, frog h

We are Skullstryke and we won't stop rawkin. Man, playin Chicago tonight, still one helluva city even after you rawked there two fuckin billion times.  But I feel blue as hell for some reason.  Oh.  May 19.  Occurs to me that it's been 21 years to the day since Skiv choked to death on his own puke in the shitter of a Shoney's in Sioux Falls.  Pour half my bottle out in the sink and then take a few swigs myself.  Fuckin rawk, Skiv.  Look in the mirror and my makeup's running. Thinking about Skiv makes me think about Dieter, makes me wonder where the hell he is.  In '83, he didn't show up for a gig so we had to cancel.  Detroit was pissed.  W

Coyle was wearing a tweed suit and a strained grimace as he slogged from the restroom to his table for two.  It was draped in brown cloth, veiled in pale sunlight, embellished in the center with a frumpy beige tulip drowning in a shallow plastic vase of green water.  The table was propped up against a window looking out onto the Plaza and was set up such that he could peer morosely out at the streets without looking like a recluse, so he would seem momentarily miserable without looking like a long-term loner.  He wanted to come across as ditched, stood-up, not as some freshly divorced deadbeat drunk nobody. He threw down a slug of wine and w

My only problem with the girl was the way she ate her apples.  She would always skin them first, with her teeth.  Sometimes it'd take her ten minutes.  What's the point of even eating an apple if it takes you ten minutes to skin it?  She'd peel the whole thing naked and leave these long, red curls of apple skin on her plate, which was disgusting enough.  But the noise it made, Christ.  It'd make you cringe to hear it.  Other than that, though, she was really something.  I never brought up the apple thing. She took work off for a few days and drove off to visit her folks.  I stayed around the apartment like always.  The first day, I fetched t

Vacation with the Buxleys was unbearable. They were all about numbers. 197 miles to Scottsbluff. 24 minutes to the next Flying J. Barometric pressure is 29.1 and dropping. And they didn't just talk numbers; they brawled numbers. If any of the three Buxley machines - man, woman, or prepubescent - committed an error minute as a hundredth of a percent, it was the job of the other two to gang up on the mistaken party and chastise until all of their boxy foreheads were dewy with computational perspiration. This is why I hadn't said anything in 150 miles. 156, to be exact. What started as a well-meant ploy by my mother to get me out of town for a