Two Pints of Your Favorite Medicine, and One Quarter in the Faucet


Seasons in the sun have

never tasted quite like you

In the still of the night,

my palms are waves making

ripples down your spine.

The surf crashed with my touch,

and the soft sounds of your breath carried

us beneath our feet.

You could float and bask in my water,

and your breeze came and carried

me over the trees.

We never looked away from the horizon.




Christ Is Alive on Riverside Avenue


He carried a crucifix on

the back of his truck.

Blood ran like rain off the

tires and the chains clanked

against the glass.

He spit tobacco into an open

Ball jar.

They filed behind him,

with rose petals and ticket

slips, hoping to appease their

sins and wash away the stench

of their racking debt.

He spit into the jar and

looked at the people as they ran,

and walked, and tripped in his

bloody wake

This was a pretty normal day.


Jake Omstead


Bio:  Jake Omstead is a writer, death metal enthusiast, and an avid Larry Bird fan.