Various prose works predominately posted by Gerald Biggs. Hosted writers and sites will eventually show up through this page via feed. Please talk to us about any inquiries.

Men Who Steal From Men. Ugly keeps a nose and a tongue. It gave my father his father’s face. It gave my father his father’s second-hand hate. Some only repeat writing on their cheek from their father’s ring. My father kept the words, and gave me silence.

It took the spine from my back and built a table. I cooked with men like me, we ground teeth into soup. We got taxed for sidewalks to stare at, for cops to count the steps. Ugly didn’t give us the needle, but ugly watched us pushed it in.

Your Life Is A Practical Joke On Me was recording before during and after an anxiety attack.

My face looks like a scum fuck sewer even when I shave. I cough all the time, and I’m not the one who smokes here. I imagine myself at the office to sell my plasma, getting turned away while the other freaks stare at my back. Gauging me for loose change and cigarettes. Earthquakes in their spine making San Diego nervous.

It gets late. Friends are here, but there’s a movie in between us in case we start to talk. There’s an internet forum in case we start to think too hard. There’s conflict unresolved and it divides my tongue, and my house. Yet there’s always the movie in case we start to talk.

We go the the Yucca. I get paranoid. The band on stage doesn’t even move my bowels. In the parking lot watching people disassociate, like the way their hair breaks loose and falls into spit. I lose track, and pat backs of people who don’t recognize I’m there. I invite my friends on the doormat of my tongue. I become an accessory to this scene, a loaned book or an unreturned phone call. I’d look better as a coffee table. People speak to me to get from me. I get the bathroom door, the space as they walk by, their backs.

I get angry, I leave. I get angry I left. I walk by myself, followed by a man with his shirt unbuttoned. His eyes are two scars in asphalt. I didn’t bring my knife and I take a long route with footsteps behind me. Another man from the local bar shouts, “This man! He’s alright. Hey man, you’re alright!”

Pigeon Religion @ Chain Drive

The bar was a gracious death trap with barbie’s holding dildos in yellow light. Men in dark sitting on chain benches, bullet holes as glory holes.

#1 Fan Cizmar

Live @ Broken Neck.

I wake up and try not to think about food, because the sky is pouring sun through my window and I slept hungry. I pour kibble into my dogs bowl, she sniffs it and walks around me wagging her tail. Waiting for me to eat, so she can eat. I can’t tell if she’s paranoid I’ll steal the food from her mouth, or if she needs to see me eat first.

I open the door. The day is hungry too, eating little clouds like popcorn. Laughing at the show beneath it. My stomach is relocating last night’s desperate pickle around its room, I gave it so much empty space to decorate. I’d give it an aquarium of wine and a proper sofa of a sandwich to sit on. Memories of east coast sandwiches cooking in the street, the smoke caramelizes the bricks of old buildings and draws pedestrians around them.

The fridge has some rice and beans for me. My stomach can start out with a rock garden. I eat a few bites and Mora eats some food behind me. Mora from a house where the landlord starved her and yelled and yelled at her. We never looked back at him, still in his house shouting at the television. Punching walls, wearing sunglasses after fights he’d lose at bars.

Hunger still in my gut, I leave the house. I want to feel the sun before its too strong. When it makes your teeth so hot it burns your gums. The road is open, full of parked students’ cars, no one else is walking down Farmer today. No one walks here unless they are forced. The road is too wide and vulnerable.

A student catches a ride on this tricked out ATV, college bar rap from its speakers. We look at each other, mutual spectacles with too much distance to convey a message. I want to tell him the spot he’s parked on is where a girl cut her self and ran bleeding over the streets, until an ambulance strapped her down and took her away, threatening to kill us all.

A few years ago, this guy Hausner and a buddy, drove around town taking potshots at anyone walking alone. The Baseline Killer worked himself into the fear of our homes, corner stores. The summer was burning us up, friends mad on booze and heat ruined each other. Shouting into palm trees. I was getting the DTs, and trying to get a ticket out of town. Today neighborhood streets are still emptied out, cars gasping over speed bumps.

I get coffee, to have an excuse to be around a crowd. It’s a bad, stale scene. Erections asphyxiate in their jeans. But sometimes I get a discount, and the noise is good for me. Places where you show up and purchase something, just to show people that you have a face and a voice. Somewhere in the city, you’re trying to breathe and feel good, just the same as them.

The old man asks me about the book I’ve got. An author in LA trying to make rent.

“I have a friend that lived there. Went from Arkansas.” He trails off, trying to give a memory to a stranger so it doesn’t die in his head.

A couple sit across from me. She’s got the bruise around her eye and regards him with cautious obedience. They got the meth itch, and he sends her on an errand just to get her out of his sight. She looks back at him, but he is focusing on his hands. Where do you go with problems this big, across from the table from you? While a girl tries get get a barista’s number so she can fuck the fashion out of him.

I get out before the blood becomes lead in my legs. The sun is still watching us, but its not an asshole yet. People are making signs, or biking. The sharp smell of an Italian restaurant, where the waitress can’t understand my appetite.

I go down to the best grapefruit tree in town, where the fruit rots off as the owner eats none of it. I’ve never seen who lives there. And I’ve never eaten a grapefruit from anywhere else. I wait all year for the grapefruit to be ready. I only take one, they are bigger than my fist. I pretend I’m in a land of abundance, I follow the sounds of birds and grab a full pocket of walnuts fallen around a tree. The dog park is busy, I keep thinking Mora could find true love there, if she stopped trying to kill them.

I owe too many people letters. I wrote my mother a letter a week ago, and still haven’t sent it. I’ve been writing a letter to a man in California for 10 years now. I wonder if he still is pissing in the sink.

Maybe I’ll finish his letter, and buy myself a meal. Freeze the other half and send it to him with the letter. He is probably just as hungry as I am, and the distance gets shortened. Hope he likes rice and beans.