i’m a quick study. i have the wounds on my feet to prove it. i’ve been watching all week. closely. taking notes copiously. piously sitting by the phone waiting. waiting for jesus or the holy spirit or somebody to call. call me! did i get the part? i’m quivering in my armchair. it’s three o’clock in the morning. rehearsals start at seven. that leaves me four hours to toss and turn and dream about you and how you’ll misinterpret my actions. spilled out at a distance. she quickly stood up and started for the door. i grabbed her by the arm, the throat. the hem of her garment. soaked all in blood, lest we forget it’s meaning. it’s only by sleep. she’s a silver hand down out of the clouds. i’m a storm of locust forecast on the evening news. i’m coming in quickly. settling down for the night at a motel by the freeway. i’ll be in your backyard by eleven. you better have tea and cookies waiting for me. it’s freezing in here. i’m getting belligerent. i’m tired of giving and living and you taking and shaking. it’s a fucking shame you’re not more beautiful. it’s god’s own death. a fall from a cliff. i could have kept you from crashing. on your motorbike. ramp pointed at the shotgun sky. skeet-shooting the moon with your body. you were a quickly drawn enigma. a few notes jotted down to be developed later on. but you never got around to it. so instead there was a certain hollowness. a lack of attempt. or lack of ambition. a wading pool filled with cat urine, which glows under blacklight. a hot tub full of blood mixed with chlorine and pubic hair caught in the vents. we could wash our mouth out with fleas. and send mice in to mince the whole thing to pieces. we could become ultra-religious. we could log countless hours on conspiracy chat rooms. we could blend in with bigots and stare down my mother neanderthal. i’m an eyeglass made of canteens. i’m a frigate sailing for my stomach. let’s lock arms and sway down the aisle as we pretend like we know what we’re doing. you’re a sure shot for success. i’ve always said so. i’m one of your biggest fans. i’ve read all your books and can recite your CV backwards and forwards. i heard they call you “professor undresser”. stuck on the handlebars of a pink neighborhood crotchrocket. sticklers for rock concerts. governed by simple laws of excess and next-day reactions. you lost all your vodka in a stream spelled: S-L-O-W-L-Y. locks and damns. rivers and swelling. ankles and orgies. intoxicated in oregon. mellow. free-flowing. florid. fauna. i’m gonna get going. i’m a tear drop eggshell. too fragile. too delicate. too dainty. primrose exactly. i’m a sharp nosed implement. shaped like the human reproductive systems. which i saw in a book, outlined against an invisible body. shaking its hips and ass back and forth like it was the end of the world. and it turned out, that by the end of the night, it was.