When I read mensah’s work I often get lost—in the best way possible—in his prose. The vibrant images of like dying Americana bypass the last remaining pieces of certain old defenses of mine and just leave me wanting more.
Above, electric white magnesium exploded to throw up our hick town’s gang sign for boredom.
The three of us — ensigns sharing sips of Boone’s Farm — piled into the car’s cabin, its sunroof a crucifix-bone.
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