DON’T READ THIS IN PUBLIC
an inconsistently and indefinitely running blog containing writings about everything and nothing.
by the writer, T.C. Barrera
a man was shot, walk on!
i drove home,
late at night,
and saw a man in a wheelchair,
short a leg,
skint,
holding a Styrofoam cup,
with change,
jangling inside,
i didn’t have anything for him,
but thoughts on paper,
and a question,
never asked,
what do you think about all this?
wrong parking spot, that’s all.
This was Atlanta, one of its many beautiful hoods; and, after all, I’m from the city, been here all my life. Here or there in cities all over anyway. I know a thing or two about minding my own business.
kids on the street.
i roll by them walking from the apartments on Hollywood Rd., and i think about all this.
this is what it feels like.
Most days, I daydream about getting paid to write 500-1500 words a day for some newspaper or magazine. I wake from these daydreams and remember it’s 2025, I never got a degree, the job market for writers is dogshit, and I’m basing my desire to be a successful writer on nothing but a gut feeling that my stuff isn’t shit.
A Collection About Poverty
strife is a steaming paper plate of white rice, and store-bought rotisserie chicken.
and the palm trees, they burned.
in this one... Los Angeles burns, concessions are too high, i confess i'm bad at basketball, my pops almost drives into the inferno, and i reveal that i prophesied the flames.
Generation Doom
Maddow is not Minerva, and I think I’ll kill myself if I find out some of you think Hannity is a hero for truth.
Judgements We Pass While Picking Up the Milk, the Eggs, the Bread.
a search for life in the grocery store.
