Update on Book "You'll Never Interview In This Town Again"

I'm pushing it back to October - just because I've had so much reaction from my blog post,  many people have wanted to tell their story. If you haven;t read the blog post yet, see here. If you have your own nightmare Austin interview story to tell, email us at info@erinpassons.com.

My Yelp Review for the Scary HEB on Congress

If you like this review, you should see all my others! Start following me or friend me or whatever (I can't keep up with all the social media jargon bullshit) on Yelp.

Natchez Trace With My Father

Green emerald pastures paint our windshield then fades.
Dad chows down a Big Mac, globs of mayo land on the steering wheel, he wipes it away with the one napkin McDonalds girl Theresa remembered to give us.
Landscapes. Trees in foliage dresses. Plump babes fat with leaves. Stakes rooted to the ground, sticks us in the eye.
Signs to better places.
Tupelo and Natchez.
Sentinels. Hanging moss.
I didn't care about them as a teenager.
They didn't wear Evan Dando's face and I couldn't smoke them
and to me it fit my classmates' vacant cavities and I wasn't one of them.
The trees were reminders of the country I had to leave. Ross Barnett reservoir. Canadian geese, beautiful, evil.
Paint samples of three; dark, medium, light. Weightless.
Lily pads dotting the mud. Deer slow moving doomed for the eye of a hunter.
Dad's "I voted" sticker on the tissue box.
Anti-fungal gel gingerbread scented.
The Natchez devours souls. It always has.
Low cloud cover. The dipping wings of seagulls. One hour in, a hunger strike strickens the land.
Trees slim, tall. Branchless, leafless, slipping into the spaces between oaks devoured by leaves.
Yellow flowers, branches mixed with clouds and blue sky.
It starts white then darkens to grey. Dead lips. Web worms. Caterpillars.
Fruit trees, gums and maples have a taste they can snack on.
Swamp marshes. Flattened armadillos. Mississippi road bumps.
Fields of cotton. Call them by their names. (Call me by my name. call me anything.)
Cotton trees. Fresh summer. It's all right. Bails of hay.
The road extends like a second chance. Tractors. One branch reaches across the other in a handshake. 
Her return serve.
Every ten minutes it's important my dad confirms
no one needs to empty their intestines or kidneys or fill them up again.
Right past Dekalb, isn't that where your friend is buried?
Headlights up! Punches a hole in the breeze.
Oh, it’s only air conditioning.
Shoulders slumped.
A litter of glass. Holding his bleeding head. I piston out my hand.
I was my classmates’ empty vacancy. Miles wiggle like ghosts in the dashboard.
The road is a home and I’m homeless. It has me now. Plastic bags choke my
Tongue but it's not fair to open a window and litter my memories out.

Asking Too Much

A couple of readers have emailed asking about the Andrea Gibson line I quoted in, You'll Never Interview in This Town Again. It's actually from a poem, Asking Too Much. I've posted it here. It's one of my faves...and also further proof that I'm a third-rate sad sack of a poet. Scratch that. Non-poet.
If you like this poem, there's a hell of a lot more where that came from. See here. For Eli is especially one that knocks the breath out of me. You can help a poet out by buying her work here. I'm always in search of great poets; hit me up with some recommendations.  
I want you to tell me about every person you’ve ever been in love with
Tell me why you loved them,
then tell me why they loved you

Tell me about a day in your life you didn’t think you’d live through
Tell me what the word “home” means to you
And tell me in a way that I’ll know your mothers name
just by the way you describe your bed room when you were 8

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