I am a dude and this is just a thing that is exuded like the grease behind your ears or the smell of excess or the mood of one of those California milk cows with an ocean view and it’s like I grip my shifter with dirty hands and a drink and hunt for bugs along the highway before the sun rises and the remainder of the night wears off and you don’t know fuckin’ shit until this happens but balls are rollin’ down a warped alley no matter the spin just beyond the headlights of her breasts out in the dirt of the cornfield the wind like paper cuts bleedin’ down my chest swallowin’ tooth grit and dried skin pushin’ pain from crotch to throat a diesel engine of sound a screw shank a block of steel a piston of flesh shootin’ through the biscuits and gravy like a weasel in the coop but when I cock the arm it’s business time and bulls stop in their tracks mid-bellow asses shakin’ in the exhaust my boots hangin’ on the bar while I whip the rattler across the room its head between my fingers snappin’ to the beat of leather skin and whiskey chasers draggin’ the pond.


Brad Garber lives, writes, hunts for mushrooms and snakes, and runs around naked in the Great Northwest. He fills his home with art, music, photography, plants, rocks, bones, books, good cookin’ and love. He has published poetry in Three and a Half Point 9, Soliloquies Poetry, Pine + Basil Arts Journal, Meat for Tea, The Valley Review, Crab Fat Literary Review, Front Range Review, Spank the Carp, Dark Matter Journal, Dirty Chai, Wild Sound, Coe Review, Gambling the Aisle, Black Fox Literary Magazine, Ray’s Road Review, and other quality publications. He was also a 2013 Pushcart Prize nominee.

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