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About Houston

Angry? Yeah, ‘cause it’s a meat market—humans sold like bacon. Happy? Never, not with this crap. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’d say it’s like tradin’ yer soul for a quickie. Quirky thought—wonder if they’d take my wood carvings as payment. Prolly not, damn shame. Lookin’ for one’s risky too—cops, STDs, or some psycho with a knife. “The dead don’t care,” Saul’d whisper—prolly true for the johns too. Funniest bit? Guys think they’re kings ‘til the clap hits. Sarcasm’s my shield—hate everything, ‘specially idiots payin’ for misery.

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Then there’s Coltrane Park off Beacon St., a green respite with old oak trees and quirky, graffiti-splattered benches. I’d hang out there, watchin’ couples and lone thinkers, catching whispers of secret rendezvous in the wind. It’s where I got inspired for a rad essay on intimacy science—crazy, right?

Nurillo Stays On with Turtles