Raspberry Vodka
by Alexander Wheeler

AFTER a long night of heavy drinking, Bud and Mary lay passed out on the floor. Cigarette butts painted the carpeted canvas as well as Mary’s putrid rainbow-like vomit. Bud woke up and stuck his hand in Mary’s puke. “What the fuck,” Bud said groggily as he looked at his Technicolor hand.
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Monday [7]: Her entire world was a bad caricature animated with hand puppets walking across a Swiss cheese maze of bullet holes punched through street signs. She laughed through her eyes.

My sister’s cat
attacks our toes,
stretched to bed’s end.
He gets out. Goes
as far as Redondo
every few months
and she calls me, crying.

( Translated by the poet सुशांत सुप्रिय from Hindi )
When I will no longer be there
I will still be there—
thus spoke the father

I will be alive in the
writings of my eldest son

I will peep out of the
paintings of my youngest daughter

I will breathe in the
self-respect of my second son

I will survive in the
steely resolve of my third son