tom

The Santa Anas blew in hot from the desert, shriveling the last of the spring grass into whiskers of pale straw. Only the oleanders thrived, their delicate poisonous blooms, their dagger green leaves. We could not sleep in the hot dry nights..."Oleander time," she said. "Lovers who kill each other now will blame it on the wind." ... I sat next to her, and we stared out at the city that hummed and glittered like a computer chip deep in some unknowable machine, holding its secret like a poker hand...  Down below us in the streets of Hollywood, sirens whined and sawed along my nerves. In the Santa Anas, eucalyptus trees burst into flames like giant candles, oilfat chaparral hillsides went up in a rush, flushing starved coyotes and deer down onto Franklin Avenue. She lifted her face to the singed moon, bathing in its glowering beams. "Raven's-eye moon." "Ritz cracker moon," I murmured, my head on her knee. She softly stroked my hair. "It's a traitor's moon." - White Oleander, J.F. 

My wife sat down on the couch next to me as I was flipping
channels.

She asked, ‘What’s on TV?’

I said, ‘Dust.’

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Hey tom, I am sending you a Kamikaze Blue.


Send me a drink back!