To Be Continued by Khara Carlson

...tonight, i noticed --as i awaited the 44-- one of my favorite bouncers
purchase some drugs, but only like he was doing so back in the 70's. the
dealer, a nondescript thuggish sort, was squatting (quite literally) outside
cameron's books, and evoking the pretense of a homeless beggar with
outstretched gloves which fondled the air for a bit beforehand, searching
for handouts. handouts. hand out. handed out. they shook hands twice.
the first handshake an exchange of money. the second handshake? a favor.
meanwhile, down the street and around the corner the miscreants of social
obligation and the underdogs of lust are holding midnight congress at some
speakeasy, plotting the demise of the *next* malversatively labeled
essentia. clearly, my favorite bouncer is making his way towards that
show. a minute or two later, the 44 arrives to sweep me away and as i board
the bus and expose my monthly pass, i notice off to my left a woman who's
pouring herself into the seat like heroin, eyes rolled back, waving her
fluted arms around her lover, a somewhat more sober fella, and slurring a
litany of "ayyyeeee leeeeev you ssooooooo much"es. i take my seat in the

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