waiting for evening to strike, the twilight’s permission to drink and drink heavily and alone, to come to an understanding with the circumference of my swing, how elliptical my reasoning may get. amber lights of poverty, the backyard dog calls to keep back, stay on my side of the road. now at a state of…

old demons released in rising curls of smoke, old demons released to complicate things, my fingers dance over nothing, invisible keys, muted melodies, sound without sound while i hate even this, this expression, this waste, energy unspent, poems that amount to nothing, literally nothing. -S.C. Martinez

the shadows are in their front yards while white figures play volleyball at the nice white church just down yonder, a few houses over in the by-mile neighborhoods of these strange highway folk, the edges of their driveways flanked with stayback orange reflectors warning wayward drivers elsewhere, an existence carved from southern pine barrens, people…

well, need to see about gettin on, drifter, no anchor, a series of departures that move away slowly in circles, headed back to figure some human calculus, need to see about gettin on then. -S.C. Martinez