‘The Keepers’ by Michael Graves


Jess kneels before me. Gazing up, he asks, “You sure you want me to get it off?”

“Just don’t hurt me this time.”

Jess stares at my crusty, bright violet knee scab. It is the size of a prescription bottle cap. He begins grinding his thumbnail around my wound. Jess gnaws his lip. This means that he’s concentrating. “You alright?”


He loosens the seal, tugging and pulling.

As pain drives through my leg, I long to clutch his just-skinned head.

“How’d you get this one?” Jess asks.

“Spilled on my bike. Ate the sidewalk.”

“Damn, Jonah,” he says. “This is major.”

“I know, right?”

He pulls again. Goo and gore dot his fingers. “Can you take it?”

I’m almost gasping. “Don’t stop, loser.”

The final, slow rip sears. As it curls off my body, the opened gouge quickly ponds with blood.

Fuck, yes,” I proclaim.

Like an Olympian, he lifts my swatch of dead skin toward the sky. Jess says, “This is friggin’ epic. Better than my Monument Hill gash. Way better than your elbow that time.”

I cover my sore with Subway napkins.

“Gotta keep this someplace safe ‘till we get back to your room,” Jess says. He unzips his backpack and yanks out a potato chip bag. Jess dumps the remains, yellow shards raining free. Carefully, he lays my scab inside.

I say, “Gotta hit Ronnie’s for more snacks.”

Jess glares at me. “So, ya wanna play assassins?”

“Won’t your mom get mad if you miss your counselor again?”

He clucks. “She scored another new girlfriend. Won’t even care. Look, we playing or not?”


The late December sky has begun to shed its meager coat of light.

We tromp down to daddy’s car lot. Two tow trucks rumble by and my knee throbs.

I ask, “Aren’t we too old for this game? Thirteen is old, I think.”

“Aw…fuck that.”

“Then don’t be a turd and make up new rules like last time.”

Jess says, “Alright. Stop beefin’. Same as usual. Run. Hide. Count to eighty. Whoever finds the other and shoots first, wins.”

“Got it.”

“Don’t let me kill you this time.”

Jess and I vault in separate directions.

I begin counting, “Three… seventeen… forty-nine…”


Stray turnpike beams singe my eyes. I am armed with rock grenades and a stick revolver. Shadows creep by the chain link fence and I quickly slide to my stomach, kissing gravel.

There is a peep. I hear a squawk.

I’m gonna kill you, Jess.”

I peer through the window of a sedan and see an infant belted to the backseat. It is wriggling some, clawing at the air.

Among the Lincolns and LeSabres, I scream, “Jess! Game over! Come find me!”


He romps closer, toting a branch rifle. Jess says, “You trying to dick me around this time?”

“Look.” I point to the fussing baby.

“Holy shit!”

No shit!”

“We have to get it out.” Jess circles the car, wrenching on each handle. “Totally locked up.”

I ask, “What do we do?”

“Call your dad.”

“He’s at Billy’s,” I say. “Probably half in the bag by now.”

Jess squeezes his forehead. This means that he’s confused. “What if it runs out of oxygen? What if it freezes to death? We have to bust the window.”

“My dad’ll flip.”

“We can’t let the thing die.” Jess snatches one of my grenades. Grunting, he hurls it through the driver’s side window.

The baby begins to shriek.

“Jesus!” I holler.

Jess reaches in and plucks open the door. He turns to me, saying, “Get the kid, why don’t you.”


Mom might be double-shifting at BJ’s Wholesale Club.

Jess and I hustle the child upstairs to my bedroom.

He says, “That kid friggin’ reeks.”

“It has a dirty diaper.” I set the baby on my bed.

“I’m not dealing with some shit scene. Nasty.”

“Stop being a pain in the ass. I change my sister’s kid all the time.” Unlatching the diaper, I use Febreeze and a torn concert t-shirt to clean the baby. Maybe one day of waste is present.

“Hey, he’s a boy,” Jess says.


Brown cakes of shit cling to his flesh. I peel them away as he yelps quietly.

“Poor guy,” Jess says. “He’s got a pretty small dick.”

“He’s a baby. All babies have small baby dicks.”

“It just looks sad.”

I knot a dishrag around the child’s torso and nest him in my lap. In moments, he begins to mew.

Already, Jess is admiring the scab jars hidden beneath my bed. He begins to nod fiercely. This means that he feels proud. Jess seizes our first blood treasure, shaking it before the infant. Months old, it is now shriveled, shrunken and brown. He says, “Look at this one, kiddo. Pretty fuckin’ awesome, huh?”

“You can’t swear at a baby, Jess.”

Whatever. See, buddy. Jonah got slayed at the haunted playground.”

The tiny boy begins gurgling.

Jess chuckles and asks, “What would you name him? If you could?”

“I don’t know.” I frown.

He snaps his head toward the yellowed ceiling. “What about Zeus? That would be the balls.”

Jess…we have to do something. Call my mom or call your mom or call the police?”

“His parents don’t want him anyway,” Jess says. “Let’s just keep him.”

“Yeah, right,” I say.

“He could be our club mascot.”

“We don’t have a club.”

Yeah. Yes we do! All best bros have a club. We’re like, the wipeout club or something.”

I sway, rocking the child. “You’re whacked, man.”

“I bet it would be cool.” Jess strokes the child’s dented head. “He’d be ours.” His grin softens, slackens, but he stares at me. I’m not sure what this means.

The door moans.

My mother yells, “Hey… Jesus Christ! Where did you get a fucking baby?”

“His name is Zeus,” Jess says. “And we’re pretty sure we’re keeping him.”

Michael Graves is the author of the recently released novel, Parade. He also composed Dirty One, a collection of short stories. This book was a Lambda Literary Award Finalist and an American Library Association Honoree. His fiction and poetry have been featured in numerous literary publications, including Post Road, Pank, Velvet Mafia and Chelsea Station Magazine. His short work can also be found in several anthologies, such as Cool Thing, The Lost Library: Gay Fiction Rediscovered and Eclectica Magazine’s Best Fiction, Volume One. 

Two Poems by Fabrice Poussin


Awakening the giant

Polished with bright crimson
she touched the glacial tip of Mont Blanc
a shock caused a tremor far below
shaking an Earth longing to awaken at last.

She followed the melting cap of gentle snows
into the shallow bed of their new home
rugged and smooth carving their way
for a story to be written in eternity.

Tracing vales hills and cozy landscapes
she cupped a fertile land into her warm palm
sculptress of harmonies and ecstasies
tireless as she drew to the next hollow.

Artfully polished with bright crimson
a magic wand are her finger tips
she sighs her deep satisfaction
the peak again radiates of luscious life.


It is not so very odd to consider the magnetic fields
render to them what is duly theirs in material days
for their pull may bring butterflies to their mates.

Unseen as gravity through infinite dark ocean waves
their journey reaches far beyond the imagination
magic carpet to the adventurous one, inviting all.

Here he sits once again brought to the nucleus of life
his being rearranged as the energy takes him closer
to the certain cause of unmatched delight.

Living in proximity of a nexus to all forces
peace prevails at last, for reasons unknown
as the strings of the universe sing in harmony.

Pulling as many particles as are his existence
resisting is futile, this fight he does not want to win
for completion here is the ultimate promise.

Fabrice Poussin teaches French and English at Shorter University. Author of novels and poetry, his work has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, and dozens of other magazines. His photography has been published in The Front Porch Review, the San Pedro River Review and more than 350 other publications.

Five Photos by Fabrice Poussin

Last Chapter.jpg
‘Last Chapter’


Now You See.jpg
‘Now You See’


Too late For a Dream.jpg
‘Too Late for a Dream’


School's Out.jpg
‘School’s Out’



Fabrice Poussin teaches French and English at Shorter University. Author of novels and poetry, his work has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, and dozens of other magazines. His photography has been published in The Front Porch Review, the San Pedro River Review and more than 350 other publications. 

‘Unconditional Conditioning’ by Maddy Isenbarger


Love is a subject so conceptual and subjective it’s nearly impossible to articulate, like the universe, or Björk. The word alone tends to bring to mind a nauseating, picket-fence couple that oozes heterosexuality out of their tiny pores, whom I’ve been force-fed via Nicholas Sparks over the span of my life. It is infuriating to me that this is the primary image of “love” that has been cattle-branded into my hippocampus, because there are so many infinitely cooler ways it shows up in life.  For example, should you take a moment to consider someone who cares for you unconditionally, odds are it’s a parent, a pal, or a pet. (Cats still want us to pet them even after seeing us do shit like examine our own assholes with hand mirrors, and if that isn’t love, NOTHING is.) I myself am not exempt; I see my father’s teary eyes after every and any minute accomplishment I’ve ever achieved. His most recent birthday letter also comes to mind; it reads, “Since your first minutes on this earth, you changed my life for the best. You let me understand true love. I miss you when you’re gone.” The very same man is responsible for triggering my fight-or-flight response more times than I can count on two hands. Talented, no?

There was the time I was seven, and decided to explore my budding entrepreneurial skills with a lemonade stand. I was joined by my sticky, but admittedly adorable toddler sisters who, quite frankly, were no help at all. It should be noted that before this point my dad made a routine of reminding me how to handle strange men via episodes of Deadwood (TV-MA): in a firm and clear voice say, “NO,” and when that doesn’t work, simply jab your fingers into the eye socket of your choosing, make a hook, and pop out his eyeball. And yes, I’m aware a classic kick to the balls would suffice, but my father lives for theatrics, so eyeball. Those reminders began to fester when a silver van pulled up with a comically-stereotypical unsavory character in the driver’s seat: red flag number one. The scraggly stranger asked if I would bring the juice to his window, because he hurt his leg and didn’t want to get out: red flag number two. My tiny voice broke when I declined his request, and that would have embarrassed me had I not been near fear-induced paralysis.

I stared into his eye sockets and considered what they would feel like.

The man looked at Melanie and asked if she wanted to go for a ride around the block: red flag number three. At this point I was very aware of the state of my own eyeballs, which had grown similarly to that of the Grinch’s heart.


As predicted, that didn’t really have much of an effect on his agenda. The van shifted into drive, prompting me to instinctually start dragging my tiny sisters by their tiny wrists up our horrendously long driveway. I didn’t look back once, but I could hear the van’s tires on gravel pursuing us. It wasn’t until we had made it onto our back porch that I noticed my dad, now sitting up in the passenger seat, absolutely beside himself with laughter. He managed to muster up a, “You passed,” before he started cackling again. I, on the other hand, found the whole ordeal rather upsetting.

There was the time I was twelve, and he set off the fire alarm at 2:00 am on a school night to see if I would look for my cat before leaving the house. (Fail.)

There was the time I was fourteen, and he cut the power while I was home alone, put on a ski mask, and pretended to be an intruder. I grabbed a softball bat and locked myself in a closet. He revealed himself before I called the cops, but not before I pissed my pants. (Semi-pass?)

There was the time I was seventeen, a senior in high school, and had hormonal rage essentially seeping out of every orifice. Our house was in the middle of absolute nowhere, and I liked to go for walks down the deserted roads with my headphones in, listening to music obnoxiously loud, and hoping to blow out my ear drums before another extended family member asked me what my plans were post-graduation. Each time I was about to leave the house my dad would remind me to take my pepper spray. He had put one in each of our stockings that Christmas; standard yuletide cheer and all that. I didn’t like carrying it around my wrist because it would rhythmically bump into my hip while I was getting in my groove, so I ignored him. I had made it about a mile from home when Stevie Wonder’s “I Wish” came on shuffle and I lost all contact with my physical surroundings. In my head I was rocking out on a double bass, but I came hurdling back down to Earth when an unexpected hand was placed over my mouth, and I was yanked into a pickup truck. In hindsight it couldn’t have been more than ten seconds before it became clear this was another simulation, but in that short time frame I found that the amount of sweat the human body can produce when faced with its own mortality is quite astonishing. The truck came to an abrupt halt, and I heard a familiar voice say, “That’s how easy it is.” Interestingly enough, that moment doubles as the happiest I’ve ever been to see my dad’s face, as well as the only time I’ve ever screamed “YOU’RE A FUCKING SOCIOPATH” in said face.

In a bizarre way, those mildly to moderately traumatizing tests were a true testament of my father’s love, although I realize they probably had more to do with him entertaining himself than anything else. That being said, my dad has only ever wanted me to be healthy and happy, and if he legitimately believed repeatedly terrorizing me within an inch of my sanity would be in my best interest, is that not an extraordinary act of love?  I cannot say I understand a love that capitalizes on ridiculous romantic expectations and the longing for my “other half,” but I have felt love from my sisters, who trust me with their burdens and look to me for support. I have felt love from my mother, who shares my ornery sense of humor and wheezing laughter. I have felt love from my father; through his proud tears, sincere letters, and simulated kidnappings.

To his credit, I have not been successfully taken, or severely maimed thus far, so that has to count for something.

Maddy Isenbarger is finishing up her degree in Film Studies, and just trying to stay alive long enough to hold hands with Frances McDormand on day. You can find her screeching into the abyss of the World Wide Web on Twitter: @maddymoiselle.

‘Children’s Revolution’ by Elizabeth Montague


The incessant beeping echoed through the sparsely decorated apartment, the eerie green light from the street lamp outside illuminating the figure on the bed. A pale hand reached out towards the dresser, aimlessly slapping against several objects until it found the offending article to cut off the sound. Silence returned but the peace was only brief. Once more the mobile rang out, summoning her to answer, lights flashing more furiously than before. A hoarse groan and the ruffling of sweat slicked sheets joined the tuneless cacophony. Chris Mason held her mobile up and tried to make out the caller ID through sleep impaired eyes. As she recognised the number she considered not answering it but her conscience got the better of her.

‘This had better be good,’ she growled.

‘I’m sorry to wake you Ma’am but I thought it best to call you. I know it’s early.’

‘Spit it out Varsh,’ hissed Mason, leaning back against the pillows and rubbing her eyes.

‘Sorry Ma’am, it’s just… well… we’ve got him.’

Mason sat up, tiredness forgotten as she ran a hand over her closely cropped hair. She shook her head, convinced she would soon wake up and laugh at herself as her heart rushed as fast as her thoughts. She swallowed back her shock in an attempt to form a coherent sentence.

‘Him as in, Him?’ she managed to utter, her authoritative tone slipping.

‘Yes Ma’am.’

‘I’ll be right there. Book him in but don’t do anything else until I get there,” she replied, pressing the phone between her cheek and her shoulder as she rifled through her drawer for clothes. ‘And Varsh, do not, under any circumstances, let Johnson anywhere near him.’

Continue reading “‘Children’s Revolution’ by Elizabeth Montague”

Five Poems by Austin James

Home Sick

something like…
the captive housefly
hanging–coiled–from our ceiling
to wither/starve/thirsting
for an easy way to die.
what about…tired
tubes of toothpaste:
malnourished, innards
(purged of purpose).
or…the cigarette ashes
straying in the breeze out front,
homeless leftovers/remains
of former comfort.
maybe…the litter box:
black nests of fresh ammonia
(stinging nostrils)
shit clumping within.
…like your handgun
(revolver) locked away
from dust and bullets,
its Man-given sex appeal.

: because when you’re gone
this place isn’t home
for me either.


claiming a sun spot
on the carpet, grooming
her long hair like
a calico barn owl
licking its feathers
before a midnight feast

feverish with flea bite
hollow stomach and matted fur
blending in with the feral

blood in your feline hair
from bathing with
infected gums

anxiety and ungrace
has your cuddle and purr
fallen to the illness
old friend?
now you just yowl
at the door
hoping to sleep
in the sun

Silly Love Poem

Poets write love
as marshmallow hot chocolate
in cottontail snow.
No( ! )
Love is the sun and moon,
sharing equal watch over the sky
and keeping the tides accountable
for their actions.

Spare Change

churchy community Christmas tree
hinting gift ideas for needy families
the ones that just want
tents that don’t leak
and blankets w/out holes
to keep their families out of the
Chattahoochee seasons.
the ones that secretly wish for
a new pair of shoes (men’s size 10).
the ones sleeping on asphalt.

but i’ve thrown Change at
Salvation Army coffers
so i curl on the couch
with my cat—frost collecting on
car windows outside.


lazy meteor spray
of hot cigarette ash from
the balcony/upstairs
neighbor is already awake
although it’s too early
for foot-traffic.
cozy sheet of dew drapes
the lawn, the shrubbery,
the windshields of sleepy cars
(crowded together like cattle).
coffee: speechless black
with two ice cubes because
it’s best at room temperature.
used to be, I’d have smoked a few
cigarettes by now.
some mornings
are lonely empty
without them.

Austin James is a functional scitzoholic with caffeine in his blood, gypsy spit in his spinal fluid, and an incredibly lazy pseudonym. His prose and poetry have been published in multiple magazines and medias (such as Bizarro Central and CLASH Media), as well as a few books and anthologies.

Five Poems by James Croal Jackson



in no other place does the sun
swindle the breath from your skin

those who walk in the neon glow
cut the chords of their own harps.

your tired shoes crush cans
among mountain-ascending

penny-win dings &
skipped softness

of losses
listen to the suspended string

how she gently falls
to wine


Write what
you know,
they say.

From graduating
college, I learned
how to survive

then crashed
into Mom’s
garage drunk
with the GPA of



We can work on puzzles all day,
watch the patterns move
from one color to the other.

Block colors twist in gradients
until blending into something else.

The sun removes itself
from the scene, shifts
behind a cloud,

creates a change in light,
a block of bricks on a building
slightly darker than the rest.

Continue reading “Five Poems by James Croal Jackson”

‘A Film That is Sort of Like the Book: Review of Annihilation (2018)’ by Mike Kleine


If you are somewhat familiar with Andrei Tarkovsky, you know that his films can be very long and very slow. A few critics have already compared ANNIHILATION to Tarkovsky—and in that regard, I would have to completely disagree. Like, 100%. While yes, there are a few moments (that in Hollywood time) might seem slow to the lay viewer, they are not slow to the point of actually being painful to watch. (Some Tarkovsky films contain scenes that are so long, I seriously believe he is doing this on purpose—to test the patience and endurance of the audience; and that’s great, but ANNHILLIATION is nothing like that). (On the flipside, a wonderful example of a film that is absolutely & truly insufferable is Wavelength by Michael Snow. I don’t think I can ever in my life watch the film again, ever; it is pure torture).

All in all, ANNIHILATION is a fair film. The direction is impressive enough and the soundtrack really is brilliant. At its core, it’s a science fiction film littered with moments of philosophical quandary and existential dread (just for good measure). It does get a bit reflexive at times (which is fine) but everything sort of comes full circle during the final twenty minutes. (If anything, stay until the final twenty minutes of the film—absolutely one hundred million times worth it). I read the book when it first came out and I loved it. I thought it was amazing. I’d never read anything else quite like it. I gave it a 5 out of 5. (I still would give it a 5 out of 5). The film is sort of like the book, in the sense that it’s about the same thing, but not in the same way. Or, let me put it this way: it feels like the director read the book when it first came out and then tried to make a film of the book, but only from memory. So there are a few similarities, but there are also a lot of differences. And this is okay. No, really, it is (I promise).

The book only made about 30% sense to me (and I loved that). The film made about 90% sense to me (and I also loved that). The film tries to explain the story more than the book, and with that, there comes a lot of deviation. At the end of the film, it tries to sort of explain why everything happened the way it happened and I did not necessarily like that—even the very last scene sort of hints at something that the book never even alluded to. But again, that’s fine. I don’t think a film adaptation should always be true to the book. As a matter of fact, I would say I encourage that films based off books be nothing like the books, only similar thematically. Another thing the book does that is so great; yes, the team is still made up entirely of women but none of them actually have real names (or, rather, we never learn their real names)! The characters are simply: biologist, psychologist, surveyor, etc—and this creates a great effect. In the film, they have names. And it makes sense to do that in a film (since it would totally alienate the average film viewer—if each character did not have a proper name. You gotta have someone you’re rooting for, right?).

I urge that you read the book tho, if you can, someday (just so you can understand how truly strange and unadaptable a thing like ANNIHILATION is). I have never truly felt anxiety-induced dread like I did while reading the book. The film is different, in that it creates a different sort of anxiety-induced dread. You truly never know what is about to happen next. The world of ANNIHILATION is never safe. And there are two sequences in particular that stood out to me (illustrating, perfectly, this sense of knowing that whatever you do, you can never truly be safe, anywhere, no matter what). One sequence takes place inside of a house and the other, within a lighthouse. (Notice how both occur indoors?).

In most films, the characters are able to anticipate what is about to take place or what is about to happen, based on where they are spatially, or, they use what they are seeing—what’s right in in front of them (usually paying attention to their surroundings)—as a way to prepare for the unknown. And since most of what these characters are going off of this is based on previous experience and a familiarity with the real world, the viewer also, is able to deduce what might happen next (based on how a bunch of other films may have handled, for instance, a similar situation. Like, a forest scene at night, for example). All of this is thrown out the window in ANNIHILATION. What happens, without ruining the film—the two sequences that stood out to me—when they take place, they force the viewer to keep asking, “Is what I am seeing right now really happening in real life or is it all in the characters’ heads?” And even that term, real life, in ANNIHILATION—it means absolutely nothing.

Early on, the team determines that the members from the previous expeditions probably went insane (at some point) and killed each other. And it is only after one has entered the shimmer that the craziness happens—and the shimmer, essentially, is a cloak around Area X that functions as a visual marker to denote how far the alien landscape has expanded onto our normal Earth. The thing that makes all of this so excellently creepy is the idea that everything in the film feels so eerily familiar, yet at the same time, there’s always something that feels off. I do want to say, I did have problems with the CGI. Some of it is stunning, other parts feel like we are back in 2007 (for instance, there’s these two antelope-like creatures that appear at one point and their movement is so unrealistic-looking, it completely took me out of the experience).

There’s a chance you haven’t heard too much about ANNIHILATION (from mainstream press) or even seen any or many previews (or know that it is based off a book). Hell, if you don’t live in the United States, you can’t even see the film yet (unless you live in Belgium, then you should, by now, already have access to the film—as of the printing of this review). Here’s the thing tho, ANNIHILATION is releasing via Netflix, exclusively (not that that’s a bad thing) but there’s a reason for that. ANNIHILATION is a film that actually takes a chance at doing something different and unique with the science fiction genre. And to the studios, this screams bad and scary and no money. Studios are afraid of new ideas (that aren’t sequels or reboots) because they think this means the movie is going to flop, especially when the average film viewer has no idea what they are paying to see—hence the Netflix international distribution, as opposed to attaching it to a bigger studio name, ergo: releasing in worldwide theatres.

Having read the book, I was super-excited to see how ANNIHILATION would translate to the big screen. NB: I want to emphasize, this is a film that is sort of like the book so not everything that’s in the book makes it to the film (interesting, also, to note that this is pretty much going to be a standalone film—there are no plans to expand and continue with the rest of the trilogy—yes, there’s two other books after ANNIHILATION). While a lot of material (from the book) was left out, for a film that doesn’t try too hard to be like the book, it definitely feels like it has purpose. There’s a heft & weight that carries the acting and moments of terror truly stand out as moments of terror. If anything, ANNIHILATION offers a glimpse into a very different type of science fiction film—one that is more interested in the haunting than the science and / or fiction.

Mike Kleine is a writer and film critic.

Two Photos by Amanda Aunspach

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“Halloween on Christmas” – 7″x9″ Print
“Assimilation” – 7″x9″ Print

My work focuses on social criticism, sexual expression, and issues of identity.  This series is titled Halloween on Christmas.  The juxtaposition of figure and environment is meant to draw attention to the aggressive pull of straight cis society to assimilate into a culture that will never accept us.  Being queer in straight America often feels like getting dressed up for Halloween on Christmas.

You can check out more of my work on Instagram @aartaamandaa

Two Poems by Wyatt Martin


Lovers Don’t Come They Go

Why should you want any other,
when you’re a world within a world?
–Elliott Smith

Here’s a whisper
I don’t tell anyone

I know this makes you want me more
But I don’t want you
And I love it
And leave it,
Still Warm
Like coffee in an ugly mug
Reflection speaks
At your empty breakfast table

So listen closely

I don’t
Come where
I don’t belong
I’m a world within a world
And when I look at
You from across the room

Your just a costume
I know

see her/she was

In the cafe, darling with the black top
Her hips were very, cherry red lipstick

She sat in my booth, told me what my dreams meant
She was smoking, she gave me a parliament

She was playing with some scales, she threw me a line to fish
I ain’t gonna lie, I bit down on it (a bit)

She had a little paper, she drew me as she saw fit
She promised me harmony, played me a circle of fifths

I promised commandments but gave her a laundry list
Skeletons in the hallway dead flowers in our trailer hitch

She put it in a poem, spit her bubble gum in it
One more of cup of coffee she said, and then I’ll split

One more of cup of coffee she said, and then I’ll spill
I’ll let you take me home to my basement on a hill

That was a long time ago, now she’s on the road taking tolls
Waiting on a couple roosters to come home

That was a long time ago, nows she’s on the road taking tolls

Mama’s pushin’ 20 with 2 little one’s in tow

Mamas got 2 little ones but no one to hold her
Mamas got 2 little ones but no one to show for (/chauffeur)

Army jacket on, changing diapers in the shoulder
Humming to the radio, “we only ever say goodbye with words…”

See her on the street all she wants to do is greet
Blah blah blah blah, blah blah blah blah

See her on the block, all she does is talk, talk
Blah blah blah blah, blah blah blah blah

See her all alone, she’s like an air balloon takin’ off
See her at the bar, she’s like an air balloon takin’ shots

See her all alone, she’s like ain air balloon takin’ off
See her at the bar she’s like an air balloon takin’ shots

she was