“Doña Viviana?” Marlen asked, though no doubt existed that the ancient woman across the threshold was anyone but. Her brown skin wrinkled and spotted with age, her thinning white hair, pulled into a bun, showed her scalp.

We get the feeling that he is an old wise man type, having worked there for the longest time (by “not getting too many raises and keeping a low profile”).

Chen ayi stumbled out of an Uber at 2 A.M. in a lurid yellow parka, her dyed hair plastered to her forehead in oily streaks, dragging a Louis Vuitton luggage set in the rain. She stood in line behind the drunk herds of freshmen so I could check her in.

Lisa Teasley is a Los Angeles native, artist and writer. Her solo retrospective show was at the Marie Baldwin Gallery, Spring 2019 and her first solo exhibition was at the Watts Towers Art Center curated by John Outterbridge.

Melvin Moses Green burst into line, triangling a muscled arm around Fat Rod’ney’s head. He slapped the back of Rod’ney’s neck where a strip of bare skin showed. Fat Rod’ney just kept stumbling forward, shoving a tray of jiggling fruit cocktail and milk, eyes teary at the sting but still cheesing.

Auntie Toya’s hushed whisper was already loud and clear in my mind, “They put one of those hanging ropes in your daddy’s locker at the site.”