Tag Archives: William R. Soldan

Mama taught you how to want but make do, ’cause wanting was good, like California dreaming, but dreams wouldn’t feed you. Still you tried in that way that wasn’t really trying: smoking and scribbling in black-light basements to the round-and-round … Continue reading →

Sometime after 6am, I wake and go back to sleep. We are somewhere, you and I, a place both familiar and strange, in that dream way. You go inside a hospital, a tower along a lightless lane, as if to … Continue reading →

Sometimes you get to crying, like straight buckets, looking at pictures of your own little man after all those chains of learning how: to stay tough and break laws and be mean as winter. Each name had a face, each … Continue reading →

What I remember is the razor, a box cutter slipped up my sleeve. Just a stupid kid. A flick and flash beneath the lunch table, the snikt caught in the acoustics, even amid all those voices. Check it out, see … Continue reading →

She always had to have a man, or what looked like a man, sharp arms and jaw of a man, to sit home manning up the place, while she ground down her joints into powder like we were always taught … Continue reading →