Poetry by Devon Brock.
We called him Mr.Chins cuz he had four of ‘em.We called him The Chizzler and he hated it:Always chugged a brew before playing the rube,And taking the pot for himself. He whiffed a’ porkrinds and blackjack,And his lip ticked for the snow.He sucked down the Jaeg like a hunter,Too loose and obtuse with a bow:... Continue Reading →
The roads here,rum tongued, black toothedand pitted, lead somewhere. I am sure that over the peak of it,splayed out like toes in dry sand,tractioned for tide, a florescence,maybe, maybe down in the abalone towns,the oyster shot towns - in The Mother of Pearl,where I met a guy,a guy named Reason,slim fingered and wrungout at last... Continue Reading →
