Freelance writer living in Brooklyn, NY.
We walked through the lobby of the Hotel Jerome. a ram’s head was mounted on the wall. it stared at us as we made our way to the J-bar.
By Andrew Arnett6 years ago in Poets
It is a human bazaar. a showcase for bizarre humans. the freaks. the shamans. the warlocks and hustlers on Venice Beach.
We had spent the day trudging through an abandoned ghost town, in the Rocky Mountains. but there were no ghosts to be found.
We arrived at Woody Creek Tavern in the late afternoon. Sophie and I sat at the bar. there was a large oil portrait of Hunter S. Thompson hanging on the wall.
The car wound through the Rocky Mountains. the view was devastating. a 1000 foot drop hung over the side of the road. mountain peaks scratched the clouds above.
Toxic factory spewing chain smoking ashes in your face. throw a wrench into the machine and see what happens. fun times in the field of land mines.
I was working on my coffee at the coffee shop and three young ladies were sitting nearby and I overheard one of the ladies telling
It’s not bad, the way of the mushroom. living low, below the radar, out of sight from the blistering sun. hanging out in the cool damp
People don’t care for the nice guy. like the saying goes, nice guys finish last. they much prefer the butcher. and the dictator.
Watching the televangelist on a Saturday morning: “Keys to success are found in the principals of Christ,” he says. most satanists, I’ve found, follow the
The dead air looms like the shoe of the world waiting to fall. the building creeks and bends and a baby squeals in some distant corner.
I like to get to the airport early especially these days with all the paranoia that hovers over a place like that and the new automated ticket agents