I’m the Boomer and I’m not. Let’s make that clear. Zoomer is a best friend. He recently aged into ordering whatever pleases him with his own ID. The Boomer Zoomer tag is his doing. Since I’m a Boomer and I’m not, I’ve been carrying a quiet resentment these past seven years since he hot ironed the branding shortly after our first meeting. Zoomer is finishing his undergrad these days, so we get together when the opportunity spills. On a chosen shirt stuck to your neck July

The January Gym is an overcrowded asses to elbows hell rush to wellness. A once-a-year event. It will swell with flesh again shortly ahead of summer, but this month, this now, this new year beginning is stand alone. Everything reeks of resolution and self-loathing. New faces in new clothes staining in the sweat of want and willpower and wonderings of reshaping shapes mocking in mirrors since the holiday binge. The November gym was busy, though swathes of open space brough

Folding new socks and thinking of the months I lived in my car. The cold of a new winter beginning. The thrift shop blanket I switched the tag on to save a fiver. Enough for food from a sunset to the next. Some days all at once. Others with nibbles through the hours. My drawer is full. Full of new socks. I am unable to imagine a simpler symbol of my riches. And the drawer pulls adjacent to another. And there are four more drawers overflowing with abundance. The ease of my m

these waning days with a year nearing end weary with search for where new energies can begin and the constant calloused tending of the aging perimeter fences needing mend I wrote too many letters to the unliving drank a little too much cheap wine and kept forgetting to think of it all as inexpensive though my accumulations have been dutifully recorded by my many apps except for what mattered like those times I awoke in the stillness of the still dark everything silent and pur