It looks like I'll never get my hands on those obliques. He walked out of my sights and into a steel press; I have had dreams straddling a lathe, ************ with anything I could find because my hands were borrowed late at night by a phony jesus. I wish, ultimately, that I was still a waitress living in a tiny trailer with two toy poodles; nails hot pink, bathtub shrine to flame, a psuedo dictator/drug lord. I could have touched him then, then nobody held my fingers to the slider, to the faucet. Better, though, to do better. A block of ice for my heat, and fiction. He wrote fiction. A sensible person would understand when I say shipwreck, my bled, my bed. Like wakoski-sex obsessed; shoulders and ribs instead of leather boots, mustaches. What nonfiction breadth, and seams. My teeth have ridges, says any spelunker thinking of oral. Its scary when disease settles in. Thats scary, making me sliver next to this scenic route, this ship-width. I'm sure I won't remember him tomorrow.