March 21, 2018, 7:19 PM
A young man, crouched like Mathew Brady behind his curtain, at the corner of the patio area outside of the bar, carefully framing an
instagram photo of crimson and white Edison bulbs against the shadowed underside of a palm tree at the darkening earth-margin of the evening sky. Poetry in the damnedest places.
March 21, 2018, 8:35 PM
Three cops, straddling bicycles in the street, faces hidden by sharp white headlamps, bathed in the amber-red glow of taillights and street lights, talking to the drivers of neon donks on 22s and 24s parked in front of the hand-painted faux red brick garage. All is draped in the sodium glow of night. So am I.
C.B. Crenshaw 