by Alex Taitague

Even father’s father gave Gregor his home — it’s illuminating that they, Franz’s family, were wiring more money than they could count to tell him how helpful it is, to tell him “Here — take two hundreds — have them, they’re yours — you need new shoes, son.”


Highland Ranch really just jelled with white families; front lawns littered with wet adirondacks and apgardens grown for furnishing such scenes; an array of obligatory mailboxes; more trash tubs than thoroughfares; and a dog park with defecation plastic waiting for frequenters to tidy up. Under janky jurisdiction, however, Highland Ranch Realty Association asks that thoroughbreds stay secured to tight leashes — like we’d want to tangle with winning poodles publicly at all. It is an alright place; perhaps now, not being bound there, the lawns look flipped, fertile on our visits, vacant but baldfaced.

Alex Taitague can even sculpt a bowl of the mushiest oatmeal into a revolutionary poem.