• Day 57: Where is that skinny leg syndrome, got you so shook-a-look, can’t see knobs on those knees. Pale white lank and uncut hair, mosquito bite worries but ample showing lax in public.
  • Day 54: The story in crowds of marker caps, stalky, short, tall colorful of the back-to 24 pack. Red collared and hidden behind a misshapen, penciled cloth.
  • Day 53: I once enjoyed employment but I am become breath. One of the invisible, the wind watchers. Holder of a single key, sometimes brass, sometimes silver.
  • Day 52: Crew-cutted swimming instructor singing great grandma's camp song. Something something 5 foot 2, could she chould she coochie koo. Differing between a pool and a bath.
  • Day 50: Grown tall. Age of “I spent my whole life trying not to let my emotions get in the way, only now I wonder why I can’t feel anything,” age of unripe white peach, age of indiscernible source of smoke, ash, siren. He thinks it’s ok but it is not.
  • Day 37: Someday a large blackbird, shooting out from behind your parked car, wrestling winds over the desert rock and drips away into a canyon. Someday, age 14 drives up the stairs on a dirt bike, hit the gas but aimed for the break. Someday crust scraped from your scalp, a pan of oil, juicing white nectarine. Someday that man has a boob mug full of toenails.
  • Day 18: He would have one of those bridges you can't even tell you're going over if he could. Real slate too, not that cheap crap that gets moldy every few years. Oohing over the blue paint on a jaguar.
  • Grant Gold
  • Photographs and writing.
  • / Instagram