Stories From the Home Road
The escort was working with folks that had been ordered into a program for sexual offenders, and this is what they wrote:
Three Works By The Escort and Friends
Four kids from Brockton High decided to go to the haunted house where a family was murdered:
They decided to break things, until an old woman with dirty hair that covered her face and wearing a tattered gown, confronted them
Back in ‘89 I was lost and a little high
In the sky I never thought I would come down
Twisted mind, spinning everything
Clap, stomp, jump to the moon
Feel kind of dead, kinda loose
Kinda strange, drinkin’ my juice
You know I went loco
On my own like Al Capone
Fly low to the ground, died in the dirt
To die last or die first, heartburst
Woman spy shot in action, work for the G.I. Joe.
Her daughter didn’t know what to do, so commited suicide, she died.
Line by Line, Cut by Cut, Slice by Slice
Captions for the horror/thriller paintings and drawings for a dark hallway, or, an eerily wistful gallery, painted in the frozen-arctic confines of a studio in Quebec.
The voice of the young girl said, “Tick Tack”
Instead of leaving the smashed eyes alone, he spit and peed on the eyes for ruining his shoes
The mom ran to the room, and saw a man with tentacle like arms holding her son
Then it suddenly stops, my world goes black
The mirror had reflected my worst nightmare
His family. . .decided to go camp at Yosemite National Park
A little while later they heard footsteps running towards them
That’s creepy, now everybody get out and stay out, “I’m sleeping!”
The Escort and Friends 2-17
The Escort wanders a Pacific Island, his friends are behind chain link fence and barbed wire. The Escort hears the black/tan/white bird go click, click, click in the rain forest. He reads the nightmares of their lives in secret documents, unleashed in the east-like a Judas Priest.