October 20, 2018



Momma wore a slouch behind her saddlebag breasts 

and had painted on eyes like a doll, or a demon. 

All the lights in Hades couldn’t set sparks to her coat tails 

as she scratched lines in the walls of the garden of Eden. 

She was alive, clinging to memory like a cornered animal. 

All the time Alzheimers ate at her, 

replacing me with the television hosts she spent more time with. 

Confusing my face with Ed Sullivan. 

Turning me into Johnny Carson when the lights were dim. 

A once white muumuu hung onto her body 

and carried stains from a hoard of TV dinners. 

She had plastic covers on the couch to protect you from feeling comfortable 

and a sea of brown shag carpet that made your feet itch through your shoes 

just by looking at it. 

Momma, she’d chameleon herself into the chair 

directly in front of the television sitting on stilts. 

When she’d see me, she’d smile revealing her ever greying teeth 

beneath exposed roots. 

And I would perform a fake smile that made my cheeks hurt so bad 

I’d have to rub my jaw when she wasn’t looking.

She was old then, and kicking harder still, 

Pall Malls and all. 

Because she deserved it, 

every good thing. 

Every bingo, 

every gold star, 

all the redemption that could ever be.

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Rush Eby

I'm an American writer, and novelist based out of Franklin Tennessee.

 I spent my early adulthood traveling through Europe and Asia before enlisting in the United States Marine Corps infantry where I attained the rank of Sergeant.

 I'm a marketing executive at


and now contribute articles, essays, and fiction pieces to various publications. 

 My first novel Eat Me is currently in pre-publication and I am now finishing my upcoming book, Fetish.



June 8, 2019

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