“This slice of epidermis here, item A., covers the forefinger and thumb. Traces of gunpowder in the soft cradle inbetween; trace of his girl, the smell of her, from fucking around in the movie theater, a glimmer of possibility in the faint phantom of her. Grit under his nails, in fingerprints, in folds of his palm.”
Jesse Caverly was born an hour outside of Boston but he and his mother quickly became nomads. He doesn't remember much about Tucson and everything about Hawaii. There, he had a small white terrier as a pet. There, he collected comic books and ate guavas fresh off the branch. Then they moved to California, high school was all right, college didn’t happen but life did. He is now a storyteller, proud father of a wilding, and an occasional poet. He resides in Arcata, Humboldt County.
