by Marc Alan Di Martino My first week in New York I spotted Thurston Moore sauntering out of a bakery on Spring St. Artists had once flocked to SoHo in retreat from rent hikes, but by then you couldn’t live there without a trust fund. He nearly ran me down, or so the memory has
by Marc Alan Di Martino I wake up lipstick-smeared in someone’s bed. Black coffee bites my tongue, still stung with wine, flows down the broken throttle of my throat; its acid slithers through my small intestine. I crouch in the kaleidoscopic dawn an animal, afraid to move, still drunk. I look around at what must