Shivering beneath the stars I sit and think. She wasn’t always this way. Economy destroyed our savings; we haven’t been able to find work in months. So we run naked down the street in the middle of the night, diving into the current, drinking tequila, and singing in our birthday suits. They can take away the house, but they can’t drain the Mississippi River. We eat Snickers on the bank, smile at the Milky Way Galaxy.
Given to oblivion by its scribe, the book sits forgotten on my dead father’s desk. Offering forbidden dogma in a dead tongue with each turned page: They sleep, nameless in closed corners of our beings, impulses bolstering the most base of lusts, treacherous instincts sewing a basis for the recurrence of the great old things. The dampness of my brow betrays the beating in my chest. The book must be a fiction.
In the valleys there are fences, and upon the strands of barbed-wire hang an infinite number of identical faces, each one hollow-mouthed, thin lips moving with the others in unison and singing together in perfect harmony, their eyes glancing left-right-left-right, as though a hidden metronome keeps everything in perfect order.
They were working forward, sharing glasses of whatever through holes in a wall. Their day was not Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday. It was another, which drank their sweat and tears and left them fucking on a strip of cardboard outlined by moon. In love with avenues. A piece of what tomorrow wasn’t.
