"transistor" poems
Samantha Fox
Was a panther
In a previous life
As well as an ox.
Not to mention
The wife of a
17th century cobbler
On the outskirts
Of Gillingham.
Which is unusual
As those who remember
Past incarnations
Are usually the wives
Of Heads of Nations
Or helped build pyramids.
Actually said Samantha
I forgot to mention
I was also the transistor
In Euclid's protractor.
Can you get anachronisticer?
Oh reincarnation
The rebirthing
Mother of invention.
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 3:12 PM UTC
winters day getting a tan in my yard
i can feel the ocean of the spring breeze
taste its intoxicating salt and sand on the air
feel its breathtaking beauty as the sea washes up on me
only a few hundred feet through that tangle of palms and
tangles of quick brush
lay wide open lush sands
and forever summers soft light
and the beautiful breaking waves
in staunch hand needed but the
deeply tanned smile on the old mans face
as he holds out a greeting and offer to run out to your skiff
but you'd rather swim
at last the days full face comes to bear
a hippie family roasts hot dogs in a pit fire
and you share some white wine
music plays from a transistor radio
that has seen better days
but this is the land of forever summer
and nothing can taint the smile you share
with your lover
nothing can touch the soul deep
expression of joys
Mar 15, 2014
Mar 15, 2014 at 2:23 PM UTC
Black, Swiss cheese hulk on horizon
The James Longstreet
immobile old freighter of the bay
Towed to the ignominy
of its last commission
in the curled arm of The Cape
Tides flex their muscles against it
But The Longstreet is steadfast
in its dark purpose
Standing target for practice
A sortie if planes home in on its bulk
Honing their skills
on this “fish-in-a-barrel”
Thunderhead-etched pyrotechnics
Booming follows the miles over water
Against The Longstreet’s silhouette enduring
even God fixes sights
firing bolts across its bow
taking aim at our futures
Standing targets for practice
Vietnam? Cape Cod?
No difference to teens
before life’s ocean of conscription
Sand is cold beneath dunes
Beach grass rustles
to the pulsing surf
to the wind’s whispers
just below hearing
as if there’s a secret
that must be kept
We are targets for practice
We are meaningless din
Pulling our sweatshirts and blanket closer
The Supremes sing thinly
from transistor
“Stopped for a moment in the name of love—
Thinking it over”
Mar 3, 2017
Mar 3, 2017 at 2:14 PM UTC
it's simple really, nostalgia is buried in a melody
the same way humans are put in coffins--
deliberately heart-wrenching, a science.
an old transistor radio climbs lazily in the background,
buzzing, humming but then hear it--
blank stares as the road carries on, gradually,
slow mascara rivulets kiss cheeks like the intimacy long forgotten only to come rushing back--
songs that we said were ours were never ours to have,
an old familiar lyric that we claimed to spell destiny,
auditory memories that taunt and torture:
the chorus only instigates barbed thorns to lonesome hearts,
major chords aren't happy,
but cause discordance--
clenched fists on the steering wheel, you must pullover--
you can't pause or rewind, you can't stop--
yes, change the channel--
but the music still plays, and the riffs hang in your head,
remembered and reminisced over static--
but nothing is white noise when the final notes linger on your auditory palette,
the taste like the stare of a cold gravestone...
but even colder still,
the empty seat next to you.
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 8:24 PM UTC
As a child
I would sometimes urinate in my sleep.
The warm wetness would turn cold, and wake me.
Ashamed, I’d take off my Pjs and crawl under the comfort of my Sister covers.
She was studying to be a teacher and taking courses in child psychology
About the time I started “bedwetting”.
Recognizing my unnecessary guilt, she told me not to be upset.
“If that ever happens, just spoon with me and we’ll take care of it in the morning.”
I did know what that meant.
Mother would get so mad.
Of course I had no idea why I would "wet the bed",
but she did.
Our Parents would often argue into the night.
And although I did not understand any of it,
like a dog,
I felt the tension.
I sensed the discourse in their voices.
It was the same discourse they used to scold me.
Therefore, I thought they were angry at me.
The silence was worse though.
Even though their biting tone would cease, I could still feel the smoldering anger.
The air was thick with it.
My Sister was a young woman, soon to be married and out of that hell.
She was the Mother I never had.
She had a huge black RCA transistor radio and use to put it next to my bed,
tuned to a Rock and Roll station.
I never knew why she did that until many years later.
It drowned out our Parents fighting.
The music became my solace.
“I like bread and butter, I like toast and jam”
And soon,
I stopped urinating in my sleep.
Of course the by-product of her intervention was
that I have been a professional musician and entertainer all of my life.
Music has been and always will be my solace.
It blocks out the arguing in the world.
thanks Sis
May 6, 2013
May 6, 2013 at 7:58 PM UTC
Big old jade earring hung from that haunted necklace, swinging from this and that and the other way where and if that sky upstairs let go of the thing I wanted you to be but a break in the system, no a malfunction in that suction of a love that you tried to forget about but feel those typing keys on the fingers that break knees and the heels up and up with the ***** a lingerin' and thats sounding like a new pounding, the one upstairs with the translucent roof ghostly and guess i got a new boot thats fixing itself to elate another prisoner upstate where the worries are always about the women.
Yeah, that women with the diamond ring with her children by her side thinking about the monastery she never visited a big time act act act in a dress that helped her enough and forgot about the rest. But we all move on quick to detest times test with the burritos that she never ate because of the figure she imposed that she got from her transistor radio and the yearly subscriptions of the ghostly ghost that haunted her in the moat around the castle of stairs up ripunzel with dragons a aflame listening to the same wishy washer story of old uncle Maury and the twenty ten twelve salute to the mastery of the fiction of listening, another riddle in the twiddle beneath the sheets that were once painted gold but her husband done left her and she's moving to seattle to start up some new cattle spreading the seed of 1910 where time stands still with his drink in his hand because the guy has got to get around to something with all that talent, with all that anger with all that impulse that proves itself time and time again it will never be enough for a salvation sanitation with the twisty fro's of yearly ye and ye bouts of fights she twisted in that shout that she knew, she knew she swears, what it was all about.
May 6, 2011
May 6, 2011 at 10:10 PM UTC
The tiny, black transistor, three wires,
One two three, ramrod straight get bent,
Quarter-inch strain, needle-nose pliers and it's broken.
Instructions: look, ask what "install"
Means: to bend the leads, push in, solder
Tightly and well, no crossing, to the board.
Lumps all over the green circuit board,
Yellow blue black etc., flip-side wires
Cut short, little silver domes of solder
With the leads set up just right, bent
Just right to stay in when you flip it over to install
Them so they don't fall out, but lost is better than broken.
The one transistor, Q1, J310, broken,
Lying against the also-black of the countertop, board
Loudly near, demanding, "Just install
It already, ****** Just the two of three wires
On the Q1, last one lying lonely bent
Crying out, hollering, screaming for solder.
Look at the one straight piece of solder,
Two leads protruding from one hole, broken
Off by careless, melting hands, left stranded on the board,
Cut off from the spool, low melting point, easily bent.
It looks just like "one of the boys," the real wires.
Copper wires conduct well, very ductile and easy to install.
When you are attempting this, to install
Everything in its place (and there is one), beware excess solder;
Too much crosses from hole to hole, uniting two wires,
Shorting it out and leaving you drifting with a broken,
Useless green hunk of circuitry and electronics (a board,
A dead board), which is just as useless as your leads which are too bent.
Some of these **** parts come pre-bent
(Why not each?), real easy to slide in and install,
Just bend slightly after sliding into the board,
Slightly enough to hold for the solder
Which is to come, assuming it's not broken
Yet, and that yours are still whole wires.
On the back, at the end, identical dots of solder
Run the length of the board. If it's not broken,
Run a current through; see if you get a shock by the wires.
Jul 7, 2010
Jul 7, 2010 at 10:54 AM UTC
-Houston Chronicle, 10.1.2018
A robot wandered the mean streets alone
While lighting up and smoking his last transistor
Remembering an IBM long gone
“Buy me a WD-40, mister?”
A ****** thermostat took him to Radio Shack
And talked about some Texas Instruments she knew
A Compaq sent them to a room out back -
“Do ya wanna undo my phillips *****
He paid the thermostat some gigabytes
And then…
He was mugged by a relay who put out his lights
Oct 2, 2018
Oct 2, 2018 at 7:23 AM UTC
her endless summer dream
gathers dust on its sand encrusted photo of
beach blanket love affairs
jet planes departing for distant lands
she had her five and dime sunglasses
and a transistor radio
tuned to the cheerful forever summer song
still has that picture of her in the fall of 66
hamming it up for the camera with her Stanley
he passed a while back
now she shuffles up along the seawall
with her big hat and her bags
candy for little ones
a kiss on the cheek for the nice
young man who brings the paper
its miami in febuary
its endless summer
its brighton beach's southside
and i know ill have to stay
Jan 15, 2016
Jan 15, 2016 at 3:50 PM UTC
the curly haired boy had a darker side
well ingrained and perversely it did preside
in hindsight the family's collective eyes got to see
what an odious person he turned out to be
at a gathering of our clan on Christmas day
Lionel did have his despicable way
into Nan's lounge room he took my sister
on the pretext that they'd listen to his transistor
thence he proceeded to violate
the innocence of a thirteen year old girl
he touched her in an inappropriate manner
which was for my sister unpleasant of whirl
strange how past incidents come to light
the family have seen cousin Lionel in a new light
for several years he'd been acting well out of line
touching the females in the family as a filthy swine
the other side of his door
had a contemptible slur
we've gained privy to a person
little better than a cur
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 11:37 PM UTC
Thinking back to Thomas creek and sneaking a peak at the freaky little tweaker
in blown out sneakers a toothless mistress second guessing ******
thrift dressed house guest ******* up my speakers blown out woofer
wolfing down dinner mad slurping curry a beginner at twister
her sister, disaster, got caught ******* the Doberman.. unable to find sobriety
got gang ***** at the sorority doing an impression of Brad Dougherty
shoes to tall falling all wobbly knees knocking hostilely like a rasta in Montgomery
racially outcast Big Boi with a skin tare lash with passion unfashionable bastions
with rashes wear red sashes like Communist fascists I‘m a pacifist with a speeding fist
ready to dis any resistor to this transistor radio I eat filet-minion with boxers on
my mind be gone, like, no one’s home and this body roams all alone
with a ***** I’m a stoner, a postponer, ***** donor, out on loan
bought and paid for, caught with a lawnmower, impersonating a horn blower
like I was Gillespie at the Filmore, or Apollo theatre as a greater Walmart style
wearing a wife beater, not a reader, sort of a ******* not like Kim, more like
a mosquit-er drinking blood like it’s from a hummingbird feeder.
May 9, 2016
May 9, 2016 at 6:03 PM UTC
Walking a lonely road, stepping over the dry leaves;
Waiting for the sunset, to leave me alone with my thoughts;
Observing the reality is not simple, but feeling it is even harder;
This always follow a change, when u feel theory in real;
For every stand u took, for every right u did;
For every step you took back, for every voice that was suppressed;
A laughing comment may be the reason, or a smile or a ignorance;
Good’s became good joke, deeds became dramas;
Prophets preach love everyone, reality ends in loving ourselves;
No sorry no thanks, rude a person becomes without acknowledgements;
Follow your heart, stop taking free advices, ironical part we do;
Edison said 'value in disaster, start all over again', how hard it is to do;
Ideal is a word that has no practical example;
Even Mahatma Gandhi was only close to ideal;
Resistor to transistor, ideal behaviour has bookish domains;
And what a irony, even great of greatest are running towards this misconception;
Fooling someone is an upcoming talent;
Your last laugh, was it on a ***** act or someone loss??;
Listening advice is a harder job than firing suggestions;
Selfish is a attribute necessary to adopt;
Opening book on a regular day sometimes become crime;
Everyone pretends to be last day hero;
Hardly one dares to take a stand, for someone unknown, for public benefit;
Forgetting, one could be in same place;
Here conscience becomes a vital part;
Doing what it allows, or changing it accordingly;
Does varying conscience have a value? Choice enters in play;
Choice to be what you should be or what you are accepted to be;
Oct 20, 2010
Oct 20, 2010 at 9:46 PM UTC
these troubled thoughts
this collection of disquiets
like dry bones gathering dust
their lifeless forms encrusted with
the fine thin black ink
her diary of desperate longings
written on each bone like magic runes
like roadmaps to dark kingdoms
she keeps the bones
in a wooden box behind the concreate wall
with burning incense
to mask the smell of fear
unfounded in these the enlightened years
but illustrated neatly in comic book fashion
by her masked superhero natural appearances
just that little somthing dangerouse in the
steel glint of her grey eyes
these troubled thoughts
are loud in my mind
broadcast to all who are not too blind to see
like the garish sound of transistor radio
just off a station of cheap music
these dark feelings run like knives down my spine
the seep into my own bones
which are also handwritten chapters
of her diary of self deceptions and denials
i manufacture a vehicle of escapism
in the words i tap out on my kindle
but it rings hollow in the face
of her beautiful decay
of her own disquiet tears
unable to shake free of these dark feelings
i throw the dry bones in the sea
and listen as she demands that i drown the
remainder of my unkind words with them
we finally stand hand in hand
at the edge of the world
watching the dry bones sail
into the crisp dawn
like a sailboat making for spain
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 8:44 AM UTC
diamonds and navy strung together by a row of brass buttons trailing up your chest;
your flesh is the night sky,
and i...
have always been a clumsy astronomer.
tumbling through the footnotes of books i pretend to have read-
searching for applicable knowledge and definitions that at least begin to pay you homage.
blissful in the sun beams and sullen in sudden rain-storms...
though,
you glow,
regardless of the natural disaster trailing in the wake of jet-streams out your window.
you translate the smoke signals trailing from the tails of our cigarettes,
and the morse-code transcriptions of my off-beat heart.
such a beautiful transistor of the divine gift of speech.
such a handsome mystic.
make me magic-
paint me natural...
leave me stranded in your starlight.
a tidal metronome to my unsteady pulse,
composing arrhythmia's barefoot in the night.
tap-dance with me in the graves we're digging deeper with every passing instant.
in comparison,
this could be penned a bad decision,
but those seem to be the only kind that the creatively maladjusted are ever capable of making.
perhaps we're cliche...
but the only person i care to find in a crowd is you,
and you stick out like the sore arm of a spiraling universe.
pearls and coal grey strung together by a row of silver buttons trailing up your chest;
your flesh is the night sky,
and i...
have always been a clumsy astronomer.
let me study your pulse through a fogging telescopes lens.
Nov 20, 2012
Nov 20, 2012 at 2:21 AM UTC
He stands solidly still, a malformation
Rush hour commuters about him whirl
Arrival or departure in subway station?
Intrans intelligence, subconscious swirl
Isolated, his mind in most violent hurl
Facing whole extent of impertinent data
Comatose commuter suffers info slow-mode
Wife, boss, kids all part in sub-matter
Too much for one brain to devour, decode
Cell phones, microchips, transistor’s overload
Components lack tactile connection
Wavelengths of broadcasts, meltdown occurs
Keeping too connected, causing mind ejection
No app for that on tablet to refer
Now stuck in commuter rut with no transfers
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 11:51 PM UTC
Some nights it
is alarmingly
imperceptible:
an exoskeleton ascends
on iron rivets and steel;
unseen scaffolding tapers
to a steady pulsing point
of phosphorescence—
a mechanical heart
circulating red light
into leaden clouds.
Some nights the air thickens
with cordite, grief, and snow.
Tonight with winter here
we can see the tower’s
beacon blinking through
a tangled scrim of trees
half a mile across town,
and yet even with our
bodies squeezed together
like radio dials in the dark
we are unable to tune it in—
the signal that would calibrate
our estranged transistor hearts.
Nov 30, 2016
Nov 30, 2016 at 10:44 AM UTC
Capacitor plate ల మద్య insulation లా నీ feelings దాచేసావే.
Diode forward bias లా నీ మనసు చప్పట్లు pass చెయ్యవే .
Zener reverse bias లా నా voltage stabilise చేసేయ్యవే .
Transistor regions లాగా ముచ్చు మూడైనా stages లో ఉన్నావే .
Cut చేసే వీలుమ్డే cut-off నుండి బయటకిరావే.
మితిమీరే అవకాశం ఉండే saturation నుండి తప్పుకుపోవే .
Universal Acceptance లా active stage కి చేరిపోవే .
Amplifier లాగా నీ ప్రేమను సైతం double triple అవ్వాలే .
ఎ input లేని స్పందించే oscillator నా heart అది chese beat ఏలే .
Infinite oscillations తో నీవెనకే నేను నాతొ నా ప్రేమ .
నన్ను control చేసే feedback loop ఎ నువ్వు .
నువ్వు చెప్పింది చేసే circuit నేను .
Transistor లా Switch అల్లే మన ఇరువురి ప్రేమని connect చేసేసే .
Nov 8, 2012
Nov 8, 2012 at 10:50 AM UTC
he slow jogs on the white sand
parody of a boxer
dose little dance steps as if to avoid blows
the sweat from the fierce sun scatters like rain as he doges
side to side
his hands held at his chest
head held at low angle
were that he was a prize fighter
his life is the beach
with its own world that never sleeps
from lovers entwined in sand at three am
to the devoted worshippers following the sun
in her daily trek across the unblemished roof of the world
he touches pavement as dawn touches sky
and spends his day dancing the waves of sand
the tourists stop and stare
the natives frown
at night he sits under the
monotony noise of an antique fan
its fast ticking is soothing
in his aquamarine blue room
a chicken *** pie and the game on transistor radio
aint life grand he thinks to himself
he's one of the lucky ones
he is complete in his little world
the beach and its teeming life is his world
and he's happy there
i see him sunburned to a golden brown
dance jogging and boxing the air
unburdened by the weight of the world
happy in his blissful unawares
under the watchful gaze of miami beach highrises
to live with even a fraction of his inner peace
one would live a better life
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 2:36 PM UTC
Fools will paint with broad strokes,
Throw large loops,
And apply utterly meaningless labels
To the wide swath of subjects
Which they will not even try to understand.
Common man & academic-
There will be many who approach you
With the guise of knowledge,
Some through the visage of an education,
But will speak and show
Their teaching was not adequate
Lacking and inappropriate.
Character defects? Poor teachers?
And, you ask, where do I fit?
What do I know?
Evidently more if you have the will to ask,
The strength to accept the honest answer.
Jul 2, 2024
Jul 2, 2024 at 12:35 PM UTC
gathering dusk shrouds her
her voice pale and drawn
reaches me in a quiet storm of words
pale rider in the salt rain of her regrets
the armour shows the ready malice of intent
but the armour is tin foil
and the straw man fails to show a face
when his laughter is disrobed at its weakness
slowly the rider moves
devoid of expression on its painted face
a japanese folk song plays distant and tinny
as if from a cheap transistor radio
its forlorn singer pleads her knowledge
but the world had no response
but the steady pouring rain
the gathering dusk
he like the common household illustration
of poison control
'do not swallow'
is etched on his forehead
but the epitaph is oh so often ignored
he adjusts his fractured glasses
on the imbalance of his face
and grins the broken line of teeth
a warm inviting laugh full of happy intents
bubbles from within
he looks out from within the battered vessel of his life
and wishes in vain
in the border town
they meet
in the grainy and harsh candlelight
in the broke down cabin
at the woods edge
a pale rider and her now intimate companion
who's waterlogged life now
hangs in the balance of his random words
this is no tale of whimsical musing
this is the narration of enduring pieces of my life
frozen in the moment
and pasted with caricature to illustrate
the methods of madness not my own
she get up from the table
having finished her meal
washes her dish
and melts into the bed
without a trace of her words
or the darkness that she birthed
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 6:08 PM UTC
I can't but think of you
When those old familiar songs air;
As familiar as the friends we shared,
Songs we once grew old to,
That played as you ironed hair.
Tensions grew as the volume raised,
As your parents worried upstairs.
Songs of innocence, songs of experience,
Were on the radio,
And you'd find a station
In Daddy's car
As we drove back to school.
Lyrics I didn't know I knew
After all these years;
No photo could make you
More vivd than now;
Songs that immortalize
Those moments of our youth.
You tanning in the sand,
Transistor craddled in an alabaster hand;
The smell of beach on you.
Lips parted as you whispered words
To the ****** burning in me.
Then you dance close,
Your hair a symphony...
Some songs I hear
Are too much to bear
Beneath a firefly night,
When nothing came between us,
But the notes of songs we liked.
Dec 8, 2015
Dec 8, 2015 at 10:35 AM UTC
I remember summers when
we'd play baseball till the sun went down
and it got dark...and
We'd go out riding bicycles
With baseball cards tucked in the spokes
riding down the gravel roads
stopping quick to make the biggest mark...
that was just so long ago
summer time was such a time
with memories and sounds and smells
of transistor radios playing loud
while we played down at Wilson's park
waiting for the moon
Wearing PF Flyers out
and running faster when they're new
sitting trading baseball cards
and getting sweaty running free
because that's what children do
We'd collect old bottles
just to trade them in get the newest
batman comic book that we would read
out in the fort we'd made from sheets
of plywood that we'd found out in the forest
that....was what a summer was...a time
to be a kid ....when skies were blue
I remember summertime
Noises, coming everywhere
Children running fun and free
Wind was whipping through their hair
Playing out till Dad got home
then going in to eat up quick
and head on back to the park to be
the first one on the diamond so
another game could start again
and finish when the sun went down
Man, that was summertime for me
chorus
Take me back to summer days
When life, it was delivered
School was out and we would be
swimming in the quarry or the river
Man...I miss those days
summer days.....summer days
Aug 15, 2013
Aug 15, 2013 at 11:32 AM UTC
Dionne Warwick was singing
you’ll never get to Heaven
if you break my heart
over the small white
transistor radio
under the covers
of the bed after
having made love
to your girlfriend
and you both snuggled there
she running a finger
down your spine
and you kissing
one of her small *******
and the transistor crackled
and the voice on the radio
went in and out of tune
and you said
hush Sweetie Pie
or the others
will hear you
and she put a hand
over her mouth
to stifle the giggles
and the smell of lilac
and sweating bodies
filled your nose
and the singing
made you sway
and you sensed
the flesh warm
and sweet
beneath you
and you listened
for the sound of others
maybe along the hall
or moving in their sleep
and her lips
kissed your ear
and her tongue
reached right in
and you thought that
paradise
that music
the warm flesh
the kisses
and her tongue
easing itself
in and out
of your ear
and the moon lit up
in the corner
of the window
bright and angel like
over the top
smiling glow
and you and she
in the bed
and you opened
your eyes
and you were alone
it had all been
a dream in your head.
Oct 21, 2012
Oct 21, 2012 at 12:55 PM UTC
Sonya likes
Paris streets
dark cafés
black coffees
cigarettes
those French ones
she likes nights
with wet streets
like oil slicks
those artists
selling cheap
second hand
Picassos
or such like
but mostly
she likes ***
between sheets
in back street
hotel rooms
with windows
with shutters
listening
to a cheap
transistor
radio
some French dame
singing of
a lost love
as she feels
Benedict
kiss each inch
of her flesh
his warm lips
and wet tongue
slide along
her soft groove
the outline
shadowy
of his ****
rise and fall
as they ride
the wild waves
of hot ***
between sheets
Sonya loves
Paris streets.
Jan 9, 2014
Jan 9, 2014 at 3:35 PM UTC
Ten minutes after I had barfed nine nuances of green
and eight hues of pathetic in a pretty steady stream
I found a girl whimpering in the shades of a column
My drunken self coughed and adjusted to being solemn
'cause I knew her long ago and offered her comfort
and perceived it went well but what did it not distort?
dry cheeks and thank you's
I continued whatever
and she played her game
for a boy who gave her the blues
should be the victim of her clever
bedside revenge in vain
he cared two shitbricks 'bout her roundabout
her self-inflicted humiliation was complete
he hunts the insecure to hear his boyz applaud
now she had vengefully given herself to Pete
I realized her dignity was a blood stain on a sheet
and all that was just a laughing matter to Pete
it disappeared with the rumbling of his washing machine
but to my eyes; that spot will never appear clean
I did not have the authority to put that psycho-casanova behind bars
but Ink-Eye gave him the prison treatment, in an alley, under the stars
.....
pause. (WHO'S INK-EYE?)
*Before I morphed into the niagara falls of puke, this man with a tattooed teardrop was handed my money by my intoxicated hands in order to set things straight the old way. All I dug up from my wallet was three dimes and some pastilles. Minty.
"It'll do".*
Last night I sat at the highway diner. All chairs were stacked but mine. On my plate lied a charlatan's tooth wrapped in white tissue paper, as if I had pickpocketted it from his gums. The lousy transistor radio scrambled Tom Waits' "Midnight Lullaby" as the waitress did dishes in the ***** kitchen, and I saw my lone silhouette in the panorama 'show' window illuminated by the worn out neon signs on the diner's facade. I needed to go home.
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 5:44 PM UTC