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Wow!! Much love to Katie Clark of Vagabond City Lit for this awesome interview of our three chapbook winners!❤


Let me begin by saying I checked my mailbox three times a day while I was waiting for a package from Nostrovia! Press to arrive. In said package were the press’ three new chapbooks: “Make a Fist & Tongue the Knuckles,” “i can remember the meaning of every tarot card but i can’t remember what i texted you last last night,” and “I Was Talking About Love—You Are Talking About Geography” by Emily O’Neill, Ellen Nash, and Bob Sykora respectively.

When the chapbooks arrived, I carried them with me, rereading, for days.


What appealed to you about Nostrovia! Press?

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N!P’s 2016 Pushcart Prize Nominations

Nostrovia! Press is excited to announce our nominations for The Pushcart Prize:

  • Bob Sykora – “We Sleep With Computers”
  • Elle Nash – “the moon”
  • Emily O’Neill – “Need to Know”

While we’re sharing these poems with you, a final reminder that our 2016 Chapbook Series can be found as both free PDF downloads, as well as limited edition, pay-what-you-can printed chapbooks. Do check them out if you haven’t!

But for now, enjoy these fantastic poems:


We Sleep With Computers
by Bob Sykora

Most nights they just sort of lie there—they don’t
really do much. A new kind of nightlight,
pulsating next to our faces, humming
louder as their fans grow angry with dust.
Comforting us with the same TV shows:
Frasier over and over. Some nights we
watch people fucking on our computers.
Some nights we pass out clicking through pictures—
a party at your college apartment,
an impromptu trip to the beach. Some nights
I fall asleep with your face next to me
on the screen, four years ago, hair blonder,
wearing that plaid shirt you never gave back.
Some nights our computers die while we’re asleep.


the moon
by Elle Nash

a list of the identities i inhabit include

pretty girl eating salad at mod market
counter reading a book

night hands coming in from cold air
to rest on my nearbody

animals eating each other

really wanting to touch your throat right now
but speaking slow

putting my cellphone on my chest to
feel my heart beat against it

daughters of lesser nobility

the texture of water

sowing the myth i tell myself
which is that i can hold my liquor

the sound of gunshots on tv

the orgasm and when it’s happening
is everything but then it ends and
it’s nothing

asking when did we become wolves


Need to Know
by Emily O’Neill


I’ve burned the dress I never wear & taken back my summer
plumage. We’re both hollow boned & ribs floating away
from tiny coals. Confession: I’ve never not

wilted under somebody’s thumb
but lately there’s a woman with an ax
& a floral jacket & I’m her. My trash cigarettes,

chipped teeth. Trick knees. Green & gold & needle & thread
& here’s a song I don’t sing to anyone. Welcome to the garden of cats
wound & hissing. Welcome to headstones falling

through my fingers like Pez or pennies. I’ve always been
sweetly useless. Confession: I’m afraid of kissing
you like a cherry pit, like a crab unstrung from his shell.

I practice on my hand. Make a fist & tongue the knuckles.
I don’t know what certainty tastes like
but do know there’s spit & blood. A slick wrong

Minnesota lake. Let’s go swimming. I’m not embarrassed
of having a body or what she wants without asking
permission. Confession: I’m more unholy than you’ve imagined.

Blasphemy’s the dress I can’t remove. Freckle & needle
& Dalmatian jasper & here I am salting my shoulders, telling the truth
too soon. Confession: you keep your eyes closed

& it feels modest which is sometimes perfect.
Also, something I’ve never been. I don’t know how
not to live in filth. Welcome to the room I can’t clean.

Welcome to the shy insides of what no one bothers keeping.
I’ve been collected silver & snuffed candles & seen too much
of myself charred with want. Confession is a sacrament

& I still believe in those. I still believe my knees
could offer who to be. How to fold. I’m trying to listen for once
when I hold the umbrella over us

because it’s always raining & I am never clean.


Because it’s always raining & I am never clean
I’ve decided to stop disguising me. Here are the claws, me
teething where your neck turns, me spilling

then bubbling like an egg broken on a flat grill.
Me unbuttoning you with my mouth because I’m good
at mouths because you say so. You close your eyes

when trying to remember. Remember me to sleep & I’ll wasp
burrow into the ground. Welcome me to swallow you
whole & I’ll do it. Call me a fish gone blind

at the bottom of everything. Lighted lures
on the ends of every hair strand. I’m soft & glowing.
Wish you’d tell me where you keep what you know.

Is remembering a muscle? I think so. I strongly regret
not bottling our Sundays for future use. Welcome me
back to the table, unshowered. I’ll crack

an egg or six, poach them into soft orbit. A planet
for your thoughts. Nickel for your slotted wrist. Wind up
& count by lumens. One firefly in the garden is a moon to somebody

small enough. The water piles up & stands in a crescent.
A city you know I’ve not met yet. Have I known you years
without realizing? I think so. I’m good at predicting

who will matter by how the thought of them spreads.
We have a fevered future. Welcome me to hunger wisdom.
I wish you’d tell me where you keep me. If

I’m really the sugar in how you say my name.


I’m really the sugar in how you say my name
but more desert than dessert this time. Rock & salted
chocolate. The long blue line to Wonderland. Where

are you? Buried? Bitten? How thick
is the blood today? How little do you notice
the difference in heat? What’s it like to come

from sand & hate glass? What’s it like to scream
only with the corners of your mouth
eyes rolling because I say so?

I took my dress off for you—an invitation
to keep seeing what you shouldn’t take.
You won’t just take & I like that.

You hesitate & I bite harder. I want you
stuck like river bending in a valley.
What’s it like to hate sand & shatter

anyway? I want to push the stove & fill you
like an alley. Here, my fingers. Little ghosts. Here,
your fingers troubling me like rain

haunts the freeway in a dream. Confess
your sins like you don’t sin
properly. I’m rotten

in ways you can’t stand reading.
Lips. This. Hips peeled from denim.
I want to sweat your sound. You, loud

in a haze of smoke I’ll braid into a crown.
Happy birthday, flower spine. I’m your plaster
sieve. I leak & catch & leak & leave

without wanting elsewhere. Without losing you.


Without wanting elsewhere. Without losing you.
Without the usual serrated exchange of invasions.
You know. The dance nobody teaches.

We’re all just magnets waiting to be dragged
somewhere different, yeah? Just little poles
one wrong breath could manipulate.

I won’t breathe if that’s what air means.
I won’t breathe or ruin anything.
I’m not fishing for affection or playing

towards entrapment. Let it all be voluntary.
No declarations made beyond what skin remembers
& wants us both to keep. More time as a souvenir.

A second round. No shot glasses.
There are ways to get lost properly. Muddled
sugar & peel against the bottom of a tumbler.

Our thumbs dancing across each other.
A little ice & two fingers more. Wine wine
wine then the warmth is a cab & me ribboning apart

before you’ve pushed past my clothes. I’m aware
how impractical it will be to revive a sense
of what’s possible. To tell every story.

We skinny. We simmer. We strip
slow. Take weeks to find a bedroom.
Haven’t drunk myself sick since or cared much

for spreading thin on toast at anyone’s request.
You, the only one asking if I’m okay without pushing.
I could go & that would be fine. Close the door

before pressing into a new mattress. Escape.
But I return to see where this will land. Your hand on my knee
at the movies. Your mouth open when

I changed clothes on the street
without blushing. Confession: I’m glad
you didn’t laugh. Glad you haven’t left.

I won’t breathe a word until you’re done with me.


I won’t breathe a word until you’re done with me.
( I’m lying ) I’ve told absolutely everyone
who needs to know I don’t have time for them

because I’m eating French fries in bed, writing
you another letter just so I can lick the envelope.
I keep my corners folded in because it’s practical

& name only the worst parts because it’s not. Who can say
what rots? Who could tell me what I need if I don’t know myself?
The trick to belief is avoiding questions. Never ask

for what you don’t already know. Honesty isn’t complex
but it is difficult. My first kiss hinged on a boy not believing
my age or inexperience. I’ve tried to be older & open

ever since. A man told me it’s impressive to get engaged
then fail to wed. According to strangers I’m twice as impressive
as girls my age. A trick to play in conversation. If I told you

I could love you, what would happen next? I’m terrible
at math & monogamy, but I try exquisitely. We don’t have time to worry
what this looks like to anyone. I had to be here in person.

To steal an eyelash & make a wish. Happiness belongs to June
& I live in September. What if I show up pink & restless?
What if I’ve told you far too much? I want

more freckles & a cup of Assam tea & you
you you drowsy, teaching me to lie still
through noon. I want eggs even though I hate them

& to take you to breakfast in Minnesota. I want you
to hear I’m glad that you exist. I am. So glad.
To meet you again. I wasn’t ready the first time.

I’ve burned the dress I can’t wear & taken back my summer.

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“Even Language Is Not On Our Side”

Even language is not on our side.”

Jericho Brown interviewed by Kaveh Akbar

Jericho Brown : Black gay poet. I’m after understanding what being a Black gay poet might allow me. I’m not the only, or the first, Black gay poet, so what does being a Southern-gay-Black-poet allow me? What can that bring forth in my work? That’s what I’m really interested in seeing. I’m interested in looking at the larger—supposedly larger tradition and all of the traditions within that supposedly larger tradition. I’m going to change that because I hate the word so much because obviously I am one hundred percent an American poet. I am a part of the larger tradition. I am an English-speaking poet.

Even language is not on our side. Even in that moment, right? And so that’s what I mean about being skeptical and questioning. We have to do that every moment. We have to take every opportunity we can to correct ourselves, and that’s what poems allow us to do. That’s why revision is so important. It gives us the opportunity to look back at what we’ve done and say, “Did I get it right?” before we try to get the work in print. Do you understand what I mean?

Read the full interview @ divedapper

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‘i love you, we’re dead meat’

by P.E. Garcia


My student apologized to me for voting for Donald Trump. He regretted it, he said, because he hurt me, and he never thought it would hurt someone like me.

The week before, he sat with me for almost an hour in my office, and we bonded over poverty. He told me how hard it was to be in college with rich friends, to be so different than them. He felt alone.

He’s talented, and I told him so. He’s funny, and aside from some trouble with comma splices, he’s a good writer. He told me that he’s majoring in business, but he wants to be a journalist. I encouraged him to do that.

He’s talented, and he’s sensitive, and he voted for Donald Trump.


Let me be clear: this isn’t an essay about bonding with someone who has opposing beliefs or about how people can defy stereotypes. My student is talented, and he’s sensitive, but he still voted for Donald Trump. My student hurt me, and he did it because he’s kind of stupid.

I don’t mean that in a cruel way. He’s stupid in that way that many 18-year-olds are, the way that I was stupid when I was 18. He’s full of good intentions, and he hopes for the best, even from the worst. He voted for Trump because he didn’t believe Trump really meant all those racist things. He hoped–and continues to hope–that Trump will be better than his disgusting rhetoric.

But he says that now he can see how Trump’s victory hurt me, and so many others, and, with that same hope, he hands me his apology.

And I hold this hopeful, well-intentioned apology, as I’ve held apologies before, and I just don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do with it.

Read the full essay at HTML Giant

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The Everglades Suck Us Up In One Hit

New Orleans to Everglades

We left New Orleans w/ a small gas fund to push thru Mississippi & Alabama before needing to jug again.

Before dipping out, we’d been told of that Southern Hospitality, told we’d get thru thru these coastal states real quick, without issue, as long as we extended respect.

I can’t say I’m fluent w/ the South. I’ve spent time thru here & there, New Orleans, Atlanta, Savannah, but whether it’s rural or city, the Deep South doesn’t fuck around. We learned that in Arkansas last year, & regardless of what we’d been told, we didn’t intend to shake these dice more than needed. We aimed to make Miami in a night & day.

This year’s motif is dice

3am & I shook hands in Alabama. Sid’s head rolls slightly w/ smooth highway lullabies. She’s long passed out, & I’m sizzling my last bits of energy.

Now that I’m not compensating insecurities w/ caffeine & uppers, those sunrise drives are woken to rather than driven thru. I pulled off the interstate to a Pilot & parked in front of a sagging Denny’s.

Morning brought cliche-huge belly truckers & tourists w/ their backwards caps & mothers slapping their whining kids’ cheeks & muddy pickups w/ confederate flags blaring. We washed up in the bathrooms, smoked that morning cigarette to the end, & off we went.


Kudzu lined the interstate we pulled off of for ice cream indulgence. Flea market signs dragged out curiosity.

More confederate flags & rebel yowls. Roast corn turned on spits. 50 cent jewelry bins. Knife dealers & hunting gear. Worn out electronics & toy bins overflowing with beanie babies & rubber ducks.

We didn’t become intimate w/ Alabama. We were quick passing thru the wooded belt buckle strapping together Mississippi & the Florida panhandle into the South Coast. We pushed Tallahassee & aimed to make Miami tonight.

Florida’s sky pushed back. Shoved hard w/ thick wet hands of rain clapping up thunderstorms & pelting the highways slick w/ truckers & cocky veers & that hard rain splattering the dark, blurring headlights, forcing us off the highway into an abandoned motel lot for the night.

The skies, soft w/ dew, cleared up come morning. We stretched in the thick air, shaking off the night to embrace oncoming humidity & sweat.

Miles ticked slow like staring at a clock. Not sure if it was the air or exhaustion. Night fell & so did returning rain. It would have been beautiful if we had stopped to run around naked in the highway, but that thought didn’t cross till now, in Oakland, outside a heep-stirring cafe.

We pulled off the interstate onto a dead highway & a different vulnerability manifested.


An alligator with an open jaw stretched out across the entire opposing highway lane as its length flashed across our windshield & vanished behind us. “Holy shit,” is an understatement of dialogue for my reaction.

The last stretch towards Miami was giddy with anticipation for the Everglades.

“Stay off the Beach.”


“Ya got any change?” “Sure,” I threw him a buck or so. I didn’t count it out. It was a small slice of our gas funds. “Need any drugs?” he asked. “Nawp, thanks. Stay safe tonight.”

We’d parked under an interstate loop, downtown looming like an economic colossus demanding worship from the sky. “Christ, this is the East Coast LA.”

Wikipedia lists Miami’s population at ~400,000. Neither of us had known the metro’s urban sprawl or what to expect other than televised cliches.

Downtown had yawned up all the day’s tan-lines, & only cops + bums wandered its corners.  We uninvited ourselves & made way over to South Beach. “Might as well explore these places while they’re dead. Screw driving thru this during the day.”

Christmas lights & club bass & no dancing. No one was there to dance. Passing eyes dragged by folks like coke dragging its comedown. An old Cuban thick w/ cigar watched thru the smoke. A couple kissing w/ lackluster ferocity. It felt like they were kissing in the way someone goes to the gym just to take a selfie there.

“The beach is closed.” I jumped as the spotlight hit us. The voice was loud & filtered thru a megaphone. A cop in a black SUV pulled up, “Beach doesn’t open till sunrise.” He resumed his path, watching the trails leading up to the water like a bored, black-leather lion looking for a lil more kick from its prey.

We walked by more cops & another couple dull w/ their night & some cats coughing & a general exhaustion that was starting to yank our ankles towards sleep. We found a swing set & sat down & laughed about something I can’t remember, it’s been so long since this happened. Over a month has passed. More cops pulled by. We remained swinging, now in silence, watching.

We drove photo-shopped streets & oven-baked homes to the Hialeah Walmart lot & burned out like snubbed blunts.

habana pequeña art.JPG

Sid always wakes first. She does yoga or goes for a jog. “The air is thick w/ smog here. It hurts,” she says coming back to the car as I’m yawning awake over luke-warm coconut water. I want to be healthy, but the want hasn’t motivated itself too far past where I left off w/ many of habits. I still struggle w/ not consistently taking drugs or drinking, but I do two reps of 30 push-ups a day & “stretch” (loosest sense of the term) daily.

I’m not making a comparison between Sid & I in a “woe is me” hunt for validation. This is where we at. These are parts of who we are. We’re both still trying to grow, in & out of our relationship.

After I wriggled outta sleep like a comforting layer of dead skin I didn’t want to let go of, we went to a Cuban cafe tucked away in a small strip mall of independent businesses.

The waitress did not give a fuck about my inability to speak Spanish. This was her job. Her space. Sid did most of the talking while I focused on pronouncing my order correctly. The waitress could speak English. She transitioned between the two w/ ease, vernacular w/o issues, but this was her space. We were the one’s who needed to adapt.

I ordered a cafe con leche & we split a cubano. We did a # on it w/ hotsauce.

“She was fucking badass,” Sid said.

A homie hits me up on Facebook w/ a poem. “Whatcha been up to?” “I’m back living in Miami, getting my shit together.” “Yo! I just pulled in. Let’s kick it.” “I’m out in Colorado for the week with my girlfriend man.”

La Pequeña Habana


We went to Habana Pequena & climbed like lizards over a tree gnarled with large roots jutting out of the median like great walls.

We wandered a Cuban museum/cafe w/ tables made of varnished paintings & the walls collaged w/ color & texture. Vibrant & energetic music played. “I’d live here,” Sid said. “Not Miami. This museum. I want to fold it up in my pocket & take it with us.”

We wandered a Cuban museum/cafe w/ tables made of varnished paintings & the walls collaged w/ color & texture. Vibrant & energetic music played. “I’d live here,” Sid said. “Not Miami. This museum. I want to fold it up in my pocket & take it with us.”

Little Haiti was painted up w/ empty buildings + dope graffiti. We went to Leela’s Restaurant for griot (deep-fried pork) and banane pesée (flattened, fried plantains) & ate on a quiet street outside a gated park, teasing us w/ grass & trees.


Intended open mics in Miami were dead. All of em. We were banking on the shows, but figured jugging would do us fine for the time being. A drama / improv group let us into the skeleton of an art house, telling us the open mic was run downstairs but “might not be active anymore.” It wasn’t. We rummaged beer & almonds outta their fridge, fucked in the bathroom, & ran off, monetarily frustrated, but laughing at the world thru the expense of others.

We shot out towards a Pilot to wake & jug in the morning. I parked behind the station, between the trucks & building, concealed w/ my beers & mess of a portfolio while Sid slept. We woke to an employee telling us to switch sides of the lot, that there’d been customer complaints.

Everglades suck us up like a hit from a bong


Morning came & we checked fluid levels. I’m trying to remember the initial indications. What were they? Oil loss. I remember refilling it, noting to keep an eye on it. There’s something else lost in memory that troubles me, but it’s dusty & no amount of caffeine is digging up its corpse.


“Monument Lake in Big Cypress is a good swimming hole you guys could use. Campsite has full hookups w/ showers, toilets, all that,” the Pilot manager said.

Down Tamiami Trail, we stop at an information station & ask for directions to the swimming lake. The old wrinkled white lady behind the desk looks at us, makes sure we’re serious, & laughs. “Don’t go swimming anywhere ’round here kids.” A security guard came out & affirmed her, laughing too. We felt naive, but happy to be.

At the lake we see why we can’t swim there. A 5-6 foot gator rests its body in the shallows. I start taking photos, using its tail as a leading line to its head resting in the waters, eye protruding like clumps of wet ash.

I reach too far & brush along its tail.

It writhes forward, like a scaled worm, & vanished into the water. I’m on the ground three or four feet back. I get giddy & giggle. “You’re an idiot,” Sid says.

We look up more information online. After the fact I learned they can run faster than a horse. Luckily, it wasn’t a 12 footer. That fella woulda ripped my pretty lil ignorant hands off, whether it was facing me or not.

On the other side of Monument Lake, the same gator swims from the center, a small dark glare of light moving towards us. It camps among the reeds, watching us. We’re a good 5-6 feet away. “We’re being hunted,” I said. “It’s waitin’ on us to come for a drink.”

“Don’t validate yourself as prey,” Sid said. “It’s waiting for us to cast bait in like the fishermen that come thru. It’s hungry & expects an easy meal.”

I fucked w/ nature. I threw a thick stick to left of the gator. It lept out of the water & splintered the branch w/ its serrated jaw.


It wasn’t a morbid fascination w/ death, or just a desire to tease. It was a “holy shit, this creature is in control.” A reminder we’re not on top. & an immature prod w/ the lil bit of power that I have as an individual human being one-on-one w/ this gator.


The Everglades look Jurassic. But I’d rather the photos speak here. They spread less rust on the experience.

The Everglades look Jurassic. But I’d rather the photos speak here. They spread less rust on the experience.

Further down Tamiami trail, the steering wheel seized. All dash lights shutter on & off. Turning the steering wheel is dragging dead-weight by long hair.

I pull us over into a gas station lot & immediately shut the car off. Not that the keys needed to be turned off–it was habit, even in crisis, to pull the keys out. Nothing was running. I wasn’t yet processing thanks we’d broken down here instead of deeper down Alligator Alley. White steam roared on up from under the hood.

[ emotions snatched the better of me & did not remember to take photos ]

The Tamiami trail had little traffic. We debated flying a sign for assistance. I called a NH homie. “You overheated man.” He instructed me to let the car cool & pour water thru the coolant system to diagnose the leak. “Keep an eye on the temp gauge while you do. Don’t overheat it again. You’d fuck up the engine. Is under the car dry? Push it somewhere dry so you can identify where the leak is.”

Louisiana mosquitoes can carry a body. Everglades mosquitoes can carry a house, long nose throttling a window, sucking up families like a blood-seeking vacuum cleaner. They snatched at our blood, taking revenge on my teasing their neighbor.

I called AAA & chain-smoked & walked circles nervous of blowing the headers or fucking up anything further, my limited experience w/ vehicles & tendency towards paranoia not helping. We filled water bottles & pushed the car forward. Before starting anything, a kind gator hunter/tour guide w/ a thick Deep South accent pulled up in a muddied white pick-up.

“What’s wrong with it?”

He chuckles, without malice, at our lil collection of water bottles we’d filled up to do the job. He pulls out a thing of coolant. “I had to do this for a while on my old truck, it’s filled w/ water.”

We poured water in the coolant reservoir & started the car, listening for the waterpump to do its job, watching it suck the water down & in & thru around the engine, eyeing that temp gauge w/ worried hunger. I ran over to refill the coolant container at the gas station while he poured smaller bottles w/ Sid, making sure as the water was sucked down that the reservoir was once again flooded full.

AAA shows up. The hunter & tow driver, another man, shoot the shit. That masculine sorta talk about cars, what’s potentially wrong, that institutionalized competitive nature. The dialogue was rough & full of social plowing.

We put the reservoir cap back on & Siouxsie Sioux bursts w/ white steam.

The kind hunter leaves & we’re towed to a closed shop in Naples, FL. We’re silently frustrated, not repressed, but trying to laugh frustrated. We’re trying to laugh that Sid had just invested 2200$ in Siouxsie a month prior & still owes $800. We’re trying to laugh that I have an upcoming show in San Francisco, the whole traveling bookstore, my laptop, & that we are conveniently located at the Southern tip of the United States.

“Don’t be sleeping outside here. Naples isn’t the place for traveling kids.”


Naples wasn’t particularly exciting whilewaiting for the mechanics to diagnose & repair the issue. We used Couchsurfing to get around, trying to avoid being outside or wandering around too much w/ our backpacks. Too many millionaires manicuring the city’s aesthetic for anyone remotely dirty to manifest in their vision. The trash needs to be cared for. Locked up.

Well, I did think Sid was drowning & getting sucked out to sea at one point. That was an adrenaline rush & 911 call & Sid explaining that she had been sucked out to EMTs to avoid an insane bill on an unneeded call.


After that excitement, the mechanics call. “Cross-threaded radiator cap & a blown hose.”

We paid an obscene amount & dipped outta town, stoked at our fortune nothing serious blown.  We pulled into a Publix for food & a dexcool waterfall flooded out of the front end, crawling out from the under the car like a middle finger plowing its own river.

We called the mechanics & they towed us back. They diagnosed next day. They put coolant in the system & show us where the intake manifold gasket had blown. They hadn’t charged us for the tow or inspection, & that was greatly appreciated, especially since this repair was $800 & in the area of, “if you do it kid, you’re probably going to fuck something up & junk the engine,” – mechanics, NH homie, Courchsurfing hosts, everyone.

I want to wrap up our time in Naples. We found an old republican couple bored w/ their lives to the degree that I’m judgmental of their “make america great again” hats, but they were nice people. “Don’t be a dick, Jeremiah. What about intention?” “Good intentions isn’t a savior.”


The couple gave us lodging & called a shade-tree mechanic they trust, an old man w/ a sinewy voice that declares engine dead. I don’t trust this yet. They offer to store the car + my tools while we sort our shit out.

“Hey Brendan,” I said, calling the cat who’d sent me a poem in Miami, “think my partner & I could stay w/ you for a couple weeks sorting our shit out? We need to make some cash to fix the car & Naples isn’t the place to do it.”



busking Wynwood

Outta Naples to Miami

The irony of going to a major city, especially Miami, for quick cash, doesn’t need to be pointed out, but the gathering of dice is important. & we needed some new rolls.