Going Colorblind at Stand Up Franks
Bio
by:
Alex Stolis
| green—not the green of her eyes but the
green felt of the pool table, smoke still curled above the nine ball. There’s a cue alone in the corner, keeping guard over the left side pocket and Lily looks ready to start her own crime wave with a flit of her eyelashes. The bartender pretends not to notice her pick the pocket of the drunk suit because the guy was an asshole from the moment he walked in the door. black—it tastes like stale beer, hard to swallow, rough like the streaks in her hair. She tells you the only color that’s real is burnt orange-tinged scotch that creates an oil slick around a lone ice cube. The clock strikes nothing and the only coaches around here are greyhounds. red—sounds like she wants to hitch a ride. I might consider if she were barefoot and willing to sing softly in my ear-- I wouldn’t shave for days, then wish the building I lived in had two extra floors to climb up when the sun explodes and the side of my face is warm with her perfume. blue—makes a slow hiss like the uneven spray of rain on a brick wall, chipped and scratched with chalk— a low warble intent on making an impression on anyone worth anything and the only person left to impress booked two hours ago and she took the radio; Schostakovich fading in the wind. |
Alex Stolis lives in Minneapolis. |