“Don’t tell her what?” By Sasha on her couch

Sunday December 3, 2017
11:26pm
5 minutes
The Humans
Matt Haig

Don’t sing me that song again
the one where the dress is ripped
and the lipstick is smeared
Don’t look me in the eye again

Baby I know that you’ve got blues in there
I’ve got blues here too
We’ve all got blues
We’ve all got the blues

Met a cowboy in the desert
Said he’d bring me a snakeskin harp
I showed him what was right and wrong
And skinny-dipped in mirages

It’s funny how in the blink of an eye
We’re back in time
Out of rhyme
Missing the fine ecstasy of dumb youth

“he said I wasn’t suitable for the rodeo no more” by Sasha on her couch


Tuesday February 4, 2014
11:03pm
5 minutes
Talking With…
Jane Martin


He held on and prayed to a God that he didn’t believe in that he might make it out alive
He smoked cigarettes all night watching the dog’s belly rise and fall
He ate Spam from the can
He drank a can of Bud Lite
He sewed the hole in the knee of his jeans with dental floss
He listened to the baseball game on the radio in his Chevy truck
He was hungover
He peed sitting down
He said I wasn’t “suitable for the rodeo no more”
He knew all the words to American National Anthem
He didn’t have a credit card

“Monument Scale Free” by Sasha on the bed at Jo and Pat’s


Wednesday, July 17, 2013
11:41pm
5 minutes
from Julia’s refrigerator magnets

When I first met Dolly I couldn’t believe it was real. I was in a dive bar in Austin, writing the first draft of a children’s book in a three-ringed notebook. I never do my first draft on a computer. Words don’t emerge with fingers hitting a keyboard. They come through the lead of an HB pencil. For me. For me, that’s how it works. I had a pile of peanuts in a bowl beside me, and a half drunk cranberry juice leaving a ring of sweat on the paper table cloth. I was writing, madly, I was on a roll. I saw her sit down at the bar. She ordered a whiskey on the rocks. I knew her voice, I could tell that voice from anywhere, from anyone. I glanced up, trying to be stealthy, again and again. I closed by notebook. I saw a man, an old cowboy in a tall hat and muddy boots with spurs on the back, approach her. I felt protective. “Don’t bug Dolly,” I muttered, under my breath.