This Saturday evening I will be reading the first chapter of my punk novel THE END OF MAYBE at the Rockaway Artist Alliance in Fort Tilden.
I go on at 8ish.
The November sun flashed off a West Village window and the wavering reflection stalked the Christopher Street pier to a lone youth tuning a battered guitar. His skin pallor rivaled the pale moon and no suburban mall stocked his ripped black leather jacket, torn T-shirt, or battered engineer boots, but the blonde leather boy broke into a sly smile, as the sapphire shimmer transformed the twenty year-old into a fallen angel regaining his halo.
Peace and love
Peter Nolan Smith