Politics is like an awful off-Broadway play that can’t decide whether it’s a tragedy or a comedy.

Floating on the bubbly foam of her extra hot latte is a wilting tulip pattern that looks like the wounded black bird she saw lying dead by the fountain yesterday.

To fight your family’s genetic tendency to become ghosts, you rub makeup on your face so people can see you.

El Coyote appears before my shack, silhouette illuminated and clear. He removes his fedora and taps it against the wall, dust and sand in my eyes.

Both men made me promises. They said it would be better, that there would be bounty. And space, so much space between homes.

I knew a lot had changed in my part of town since I left because cafes had cropped up all over the place, like small checker pieces from other boards migrating over to ours.

He wants to go a year backward. The evidence of this desire is the date he writes on all of the release forms.

My brother calls, says, “Bring a razor the next time you visit mom. She wants her mustache shaved.”