Old short stories can offer a glimpse of past perspective, but they aren’t exactly diary entries. They’re more akin to tattoos, the best ones bookmarking the past with hints and suggestions. (No dog-eared pages here.) “Tell Me” was published in Robert Howell’s Nails some years ago. The second half of it is below. The first part you don’t get. Not on this site, anyway. The first part is like those certain below the belt tattoos; in order to set your eyes on it, you’ll need to get me drunk. "Tell Me" Part 2 In the alley now. Going down St. Peter. Keeping her company, the sound of her boots, clack-clap, clack-clap, clack-clap , a passing police siren echoing through the street, clack-clap, clack-clap, clack-clap , a rooftop gutter releasing its bowels, clack-clap, clack-clap, clack-clap, duel pissings from a man too drunk to see, one of urine, another streaming from a phobic subconscious set loose from its tethers by so much narcotic, clack-clap, clack-clap, cla
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