All in Dana Jerman

Dinners With Dead Gangsters — A Class War Notebook

Meanwhile in another house that capitalism built, the low-ceilinged “49er Bar” at the El Rancho Hotel in Gallup, New Mexico, local native dark-eyed women from the reservation gossip over sips of massive drinks at tables next to back-lit stained glass. The juke spins saccharine country in a loamy whisper while a stage, tidy and too well-lit for the rest of the place, bears a sign indicating that karaoke was just last evening. Absolutely nothing to do here but drink and be.

A Little Trouble in Big Paradise

The official title must resemble something like “Concessions and Party Hostess.” Birthday parties on Mondays and shifts between 4.5 and 8 hours on a couple other days. Part-part time. Non-negotiable. If you’re already rolling your eyes at this nearly forty year old woman over here thinking for a minute that this was a good idea, you’re absolutely right. I guess I’ll shrug again and say “Hey, I’ll try just about anything once.”

Tomorrow Will Be Late

She kept running. Wind whipped at our hair and the frenzy in the silhouette was beautiful. I had never been out this far before. Hard to believe home was tucked into one of those cobalt corners of stylized steel that loomed like a frozen storm at the horizon. And so too when I turned again there another storm right in front of me.

Love Curse — Part I

She remembered it was a full moon right before she got in. As soon as they pulled out of the uptown apartment parking lot, all packed in and heading out to a dark graveyard in rural nowhere, she wanted out of the car. But she couldn’t say so. She was hanging out. This is what you did when you hung out and had idyll time. Suddenly, she wanted to be alone. She was hating herself for not turning around and walking back down the hill toward home. Her eyes grew big and dark. Her mouth pulled in with silence.

Rib Of Twilight

He wanted to know if I had anything that belonged to her, or what kind of things did she leave behind? And that gave me pause, because I’d never thought of her, or her case, that way before.

Then the question for me got caught between that place where you consider what you might leave behind and what is left to you, which is kind of all the same thing. Like a big merry-go-round of belongings all changing hands from life to life. 

First Season At The Unicorn Ranch

The pails of lemongrass milk we yoke out to slake them will be the same to pick up their poo: pink for girls, blue for boys. Noisome as a teenage pageant winner’s bedroom, it reeks of very horny flowers with a pollen fetish. If left uncollected the deep pheromones attract an unsavory population... I'm not talking about the diamond lice that we inspected their horns for each day...