in my shower.
You’re there in the passenger seat.
You’re in two places simultaneously.
Your head’s on my chest,
arms around my neck, fingers laced.
You’re in my headphones when “Cheers Darlin’” hits my ears.
You’re sitting on my lap.
You’re laying on your bed.
You’re climbing in and never leaving my head.
You’re at the top of my list-- the only name.
You run through my veins—
the only drug I want to take.
You’re the love that hurts, the love that saves,
the love that stains my tongue.
You’re the anger, the sweat, the out-of-breath.
You’re the “take your time.”
You’re every good word.
But you haven’t said your mine.

the muck and the mud dried in my hair.
i climbed through the window that had served
as a painful entrance hours before.

the trek to downtown Tulsa was one I knew well.
the journey was nightly for months, and existence was
brief each time.
the car ride was long and bumpy. i pitied the shocks beneath
me as they screamed with each hit.
they never saw them coming.

my friends crowded the cab and the heat
****** salty sweat from my pores. with every pull from the whiskey
bottle, i traded sanity for spirit.
music floated through the heavy, dense air--
Combat Rock or Bowie's deep cuts.
cigarettes burned holes in our chests and
our bodies ached in maddening delight.

i turned the wheel,
my fingertips surreal.
we pulled in, stepped out, and felt the bass race up our legs.
3 minutes in the building and we were all covered in glitter
and shining on the inside.

with the shaft of this city looking so bleak,
i know i couldn’t have fallen anywhere else.
but i don’t know about you.

i know plenty about the music you’re into,
the language you speak, the stairs you creak,
but i don’t know about you.

i see those beautiful eyes of yours
and i see them stare at the smoke billows,
and i see you seeing that I can’t figure you out.

and it gets me off every ******* day.
but i don’t blame you.

Edie strolled into the restaurant, her favorite place
as a child.
The diner was decorated in a 50's theme
and looked like it was a drunken night's
regurgitation of the one in "Pulp Fiction."

She sat down in front of her father,
who had been watching her ever since she pulled up.

"Jesus Christ, Edie. What did those shoes cost you?"

Edie was wearing a pair of pink heels with
Louboutin trademark red soles.

"Enough," Edie spat, with obvious contempt for her father's concern.

The waitress approached,
sat her plump buttocks on the booth
next to Edie's father and took their drink order.
Two coffees, two waters, and an orange juice.

"I want you to meet my new girlfriend, Edie."

"What the **** do you mean by that?"

"Have dinner with us."

"No, thanks."

Edie's father took a deep sigh.

"I know this is about your mother---"

Edie threw a ten on the table, and
strode quickly to the door.
Elvis, Marilyn, and Frank look-a-likes stared
curiously at her full-figure.

Edie sank into her car with tears rolling
down her cheeks.
She drove to a convenience store and purchased
two bottles- Tylenol and Jack.
She threw a couple swigs of each back and raced
towards the Turner Motel, where her next
client waited eagerly with a sweaty forehead and a
chest panting like a diseased dog.

Edie let it fester.

our skin is
in the way.

Edie was caught in the claws of copulation.
She was attractive, with no roots showing
on the top of her scalp.
Great ****, great ***, could hold a conversation.
Everyday, she got into her workhouse of a car,
more home than her dingy apartment, and drove
to her first "appointment."

But on this day, the appointment that loomed ahead of
her had her shower cold and her face white.

She drove past an old movie theatre
and an abstract and title company with
the fanciest sign in town.
It was Edie's favorite.

She glanced out the window.
A regular ******* standing on the sidewalk was chatting
up a woman who looked bored stiff
and there was a young man a few jumps
away who couldn't hold his liquor.

"Pathetic," Edie muttered.

An average run-of-the-mill bar slouched behind
them and there were ridiculous looking people
spilling out the door.
But only those who had survived the night before.

Across the street, a newspaper dispenser ***** and chained
to a light pole stood content as its contents spilled from
it's belly like the guts of a dead gazelle.
Like the guts of it's readers.
Like the guts of a building out an open window.

Edie's ******* were sore and hurt after the
manhandling of last night.
They began with a ***** that got straight to
the point and then they did too.
He had advertised himself as "sweety but meaty"
and Edie discovered later
that his genitals were uncircumsized and below average.

Oh well.
Submission.

She had a headache in the morning and no aspirin.
Her decision was to stop later and get some.
But before then, she had something to take care of.
Something big that needed to be handled.
Something she hoped would be brief.

"Something," she thought, "that's for **** sure."

She pulled into a front spot in her black '98 BMW,
fixed her make-up, then her hair.
Edie closed her eyes, took in a rather large
amount of oxygen,
exhaled and stepped out of the car.
She had a hankering for eggs after all.

my roommates are plotting tonight.
"oil wrestling," says Tookah.
"mud fights," says Darby.
"let's be strippers!"
in unison this time.
they fake enthusiasm well enough. so well i'm not sure if they're kidding.
i put in my headphones and disengage.
it's electric, combined with some pseudo thinking.
but i have to admit, my hypochondria subsides
when i'm overtaken by their banter.

Broken Social Scene is in my head.
smoke between my lips. American Spirits.
coffee on my tongue. tea will come later.
Lauren will get off work soon and i'll feel
complete again.

but until then,  i will sit here and record this ****,
needlessly clean my vinyl,
maybe clean the apartment,
consider buying a new guitar,
immediately dismiss the idea,
fiddle around on the piano,
pick up the fourth and final roommate from work,
wait for my heart to stop beating in my head,
and for her to come home to me.