“He was too cool to be real, too real to be cool. He was just what he fucking was: Charles L. Liston, mightiest of men, sharpest of dressers. Had more pasts than most people had socks. Go on, pick a past, any past. They were all the same to him: sand slough and alleys, barrooms and prison cells, fancy ass big bad gangster men and bent-down cotton pickers. All the same.”
A poetry & literature blog 