9.6 / June 2014

This part of life should get to be longer.

There were no shallows to wade the boat through safely. There were no tracks over the ridge, no portage that might allow them to jump a few hundred yards downstream and put back in the river.

I am familiar with the geography of a bruise. The borders shift. The color stains bright, then fades. Fingerprints like points on a map.

We are the men of St. Christopher Street...Rick Stutesman built all our houses. He lives in one of them. That’s a trait of St. Christopher Street.

There she is: the woman you love. Sitting on the park bench. Exactly how you remember her.

Some words can kill: our mother’s insistence—so aim well.

The town of Westriver had wanted the lighthouse to be used by the state university, but the school already held property on one of the bay’s many islands and had little use for a decaying relic of the former maritime economy within spitting distance of shore.

The man and the women arrived at the outskirts of the village just before dusk and pitched their tents. Three women and one man, two tents.

While it is true that if pressed, José Antonio Rincón would have denied enjoying the experience because, regardless of the changes he endured during those three days last April, his basic nature remained the same. That is to say, José Antonio was, is and will always be a contrarian.

You can push my knees down into the mud, put your fingers around my neck so tight but I’d much prefer to be the stud.

Fall in love with the wrong girl. Let your mama find out when she follows you to the whorehouse along the tourist belt. Let her know where you spend your hard-earned pesos.