Alex Patriquin

Marginalia & found poetry. Short fiction and other projects. Musings  on startups. Photos from NYC and travels.


The freeway drew the Range Rover out of the city and up into the mountains, where the dry grass was a perfect golden yellow, the color some Beverly Hills stylist had tried to make his daughters’ hair. Grazing black cattle were so dark against the luminosity of the grass that they appeared as voids, four-legged holes to starless space.

from Angel Lust by Maggie Shepard