

# 75 secrets.

## By Joaquin Emiliano

## Copyright 2018 Joaquin Emiliano

## Smashwords Edition

## Smashwords Edition, License Notes

## This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this ebook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

## ***

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidences are all either products of the author's imagination, or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental.

## ***

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#

#

# these secrets are dedicated to Honey Tangerine.

## #1

## one more time, blood moon.

made a head count tonight, and it turns out i have 75 secrets.

only one of them concerns the blood moon.

a fitting number, considering what's waiting for us all this morning.

sadly, as the definition for _secret_ goes, this story is not for sale.

although, far as circumstances go, i can reveal what's good for the gander: a nowhere kind of no place in Brooklyn. an honest dive somewhere between the polished neighborhoods off the L and the collective rumors of Sunset Park. boring sort of bartender. the kind with a job to do. tattoos worth a mention or two. blue neon hue. almost empty save for a silent couple in one tattered booth. three rounds into a beer, shot of Beam to help the medicine go down. jukebox alive with miscommunication.

dropped a cigarette on the floor and stooped down below the handrail for a cold recovery. came back up with an unexpected prize: brass ring. not Army, Navy, or Marines – embalm of a broken heart, split in half by a skeleton key. shame to waste it. slipped it on my left ring finger and ordered another round.

well into a two a.m. buzz when she strode on in. dirty blond curls bouncing to the beat of well-heeled boots. burgundy lipstick. not a lot of eye left to peek out from behind all that shadow. jeans taut against teardrop hips. tan suede jacket a mess with Southwestern tassels. brisk stride taking her all the way to my side of the argument.

she took a seat and stared at me. irises radiant with streaks of green and yellow.

asked if i was going to buy her a drink or sit there with my dick in my hand.

i put my dick away and bought her a beer, Beam back.

she took the shot down before i could join her.

she wiped with the entirety of her forearm, nails painted black, and said, _it didn't go down as planned_.

i nodded. had a few swallows of beer. waited.

_what do you want me to say?_ she asked, lighting her own cigarette. _time, temperature?_ _winds out of the fucking southeast? it did. not. go. as. planned._

i shrugged. _nothing ever does_.

_that's it?_ she asked.

_i don't know if we've really been introduced_.

she paused, bottle just one instant from her lips. _oh, shit_... she took down half her beer and motioned with her eyes. _Where did you get that?_

_i followed her gaze. Same place you got yours. Bartender_.

_not your beer, idiot. the ring. the ring on your finger_.

i had almost forgotten. _found it_.

_shit_. she drew me close. gave a brief glimpse of what she looked like in her sleep, before pressing her mouth to mine.

i remember thinking _thank you_ as the kiss softened and surrendered the taste of fresh whiskey. her hands wandered over my body. i reflexively followed. gave her thighs the attention they deserved. welcomed a brief interlude, her forehead pressed against mine. eyes crossed, heavy. fixated, as she held my face with those hands and whispered with a breathless tenor, _they're watching us_.

the _who_ was buried beneath another immortal kiss.

this one with a tongue so sublime, i finally had to admit it had no place along my lips. opened one eye to find she was doing the same. running recognizance, somewhere past my right shoulder. i broke away. turned my face from perfection to see for myself.

that couple in the faraway booth were both, yes, watching us. staring. blank, analytical looks. jaws slowly working. open then closed, then open, as though wind ups were casually clashing cymbals between their cheeks.

_don't_ , she whispered into my ear. _keep going. don't stop_.

the man in the booth reached out blindly to his female counterpart and took a bite out of her arm.

i watched with an alcoholic's distant understanding. faraway places reminding me that this woman's hands were still clutching at my inner thighs. blood dripping from that stranger's face as he stood, slowly, jukebox flipping the intro to _Fat Bottomed Girls_. strange moment where the bartender proved as lost as i was, wandering up with another pair of shots and casually asking

hey, Delilah, you gonna stay up for the blood moon tonight...?

the stranger let that piece of his girlfriend's arm fall from his mouth onto the dirty floor, where it bounced. just once.

he began to walk towards us, smiling.

and i really wanted to kiss Delilah again, one last time. or several more last times, either/or would have been better than this.

i turned back with the full intention of ignoring every last thing since we last stopped.

too late. already her eyes were fixed. cigarette clamped between her teeth. reaching beneath the bar's outcrop and searching.

and as i heard the sound of tape ripping away from whatever implement she had planted, and the stranger's hands turned to wild tendrils, taking the form of gleaming razor blades, all i could think to ask her was when would we be seeing each other again.

...the rest is REDACTED

except to say that the ring disappeared from my finger, and the moon was blood red at midday.

## #2

## path.

I was halfway down the path, mid sentence when I put my mouth on mute. Not because there was no one to talk to. That had been the case for the entirety of what was now an entire grey-layered week. Wasn't because of the insistent tap of the knapsack as it beat against my back, bottle of Jack working on a bruise that would eventually take the purple shape of an exact, confrontational arrow. Wasn't that the drizzle had finally stopped, even though it signaled the end of a seven-day raincloud that had followed me since the beginning.

Yes, I had stopped talking, but not walking, because now there was a new sound. Some crunching, grinding layer of information that didn't jive with the asphalt path I had discovered. I kept walking, eyes bleary in the twilight. Never thinking to look down. Until I did, and I set my stride on hold. First time resting my steps for so long, and the stillness reached up to the sky.

Found my shoes surrounded by a shiny, dimly rippling blanket. As though the path had come alive. I bent at the waist, bookbag sliding into the crux of my arm.

I sniffed. Sent my spine into cold spasms. Closed my eyes. Gave myself a moment of entangled darkness, where an actual memory or two found its way around the roadblocks. The house I had left behind. The sign in the middle of the woods, pointing the way. Eroded yellow letters suggesting a shortcut.

THE PATH.

I opened my eyes to find the world hadn't changed.

Snails.

Small snails, maybe a fourth of the size I had come to accept as average. Pebbles with mucus tails, trails. Tiny antennae reaching in all directions, questioning.

I straightened. Stepped back, throat clenching, to see what damage I had done. My foot came down in another deafening crunch. A size nine's worth of murdered miniatures, and my windpipe turned to a pinhole. I swiveled my neck, turned my head to where I had come from, then back to where there was yet to be. Either way, nothing but a sea of shimmering miracles.

I felt a few tears slither. Drop their deposits along my lips. Felt them teeter close to my chin, when I remembered –

Salt.

So I wiped them clear with my crew-neck collar, kept them from falling on the multitudes below. Stopped myself from crying. Pinched the bridge of my nose, inner corners of my eye sockets.

Looked left. Right.

The path was near ten feet wide. Thick trees on either side, too far to reach. Not without another holocaust for every step. Green leaves like grins, asking me _What are you going to do now, Lucky?_ Seven days from where I had been and too many steps away from safety.

I maintained my balance.

Brought the book bag to my chest. Zipped open. Reached in. Liberated the bottle of Jack. Zipped up. Shouldered the strap, almost knocking myself off balance.

Held out my arms.

Steady.

Cautiously reined myself back in.

Unscrewed the cap. Took a pull.

Fireside burn bringing back another memory or so.

I waited as nighttime fell, and silent snails made their way beneath me, endangered metropolis, movable homes on their backs.

Had another drink.

Focused on staying still.

Stayed on the path, frozen in time, and remembered my way backwards against what lay ahead.

## #3

## remember the everything.

we're going to rename the stars. there won't be a constellation alive that isn't scattered halfway to and from the edges of this map, which cleverly points in every direction, arrows lighting up along spiraled arms, reminding even the last remainders of what were the two of us, _that you are here_.

## #4

## gift.

_It wasn't too far from this place that I saw my first coyote_ , she told her daughter, _and I remember because it wasn't more than a few minutes after that when I saw the river change directions_.

She felt her daughter's eyes staring up from the six-year-old height of four feet, fingers locked into a belt loop, blind eyes paying lip service, waiting for another story to color in what those ears had been hearing for so long.

With one hand leading the way, she ran streams through her daughter's dark hair. _Coyotes are conical animals_ , she said. _Imagine all the shapes you've already imagined, all moving toward a spot just beyond where your ears reach. When you get too close to the edge of the forest, and you know you're close because at any moment you'll come into contact with the sound of cars barreling along the highway. Only you hear them before they happen. Like when a man walks past you on a clear day, and just a bit of rain water falls from his shoulders onto your forehead, and you know somewhere it's raining, and maybe the storm's coming your way_.

_And that's what this creature was like. Caught him staring at me from across the river. You remember the day, the first time you smiled back at me? That was what I mean by staring, that's what it looks like to be looked at. The way the warm is sluicing through the leaves, the way it catches your face, this is the kind of day it was. Cooler, though. There was a breeze, the kind you feel in March now, instead of May. And I stopped, and watched him. And he watched me. But more than that. I could feel his mind like velvet against mine. Those were the eyes I was dealing with, right about when I was your age, and you were so far away_.

Beat.

_And then he winked_. She took a palm and traced it over her daughter's face, let her know where this next touch was coming from, and placed a palm over the right eye. _There. That's a wink. And it can mean so many things, so if you ever sense one coming your way, be careful. A wink can bring you closer to its origin, leave you cold, cheat, deceive, bond_ – _there have been times in my life when a wink has changed the meaning of a conversation to the point where there was no turning back_.

She withdrew her hand from her daughter's face and placed it on a tiny shoulder. _Funny I should put it to you like that, those last words. Because soon after, the coyote went scampering into the underbrush, and that was when I saw the river change_.

_Remember the big storm? You felt it in your tiny little snoot, tasted it before it happened? This was what it was like. Imagine if you woke up and your bed felt like the bath, or your breakfast was suddenly a bowl full of your building blocks. Not the way things are supposed to be, and it wasn't the way things were supposed to go. But I didn't have the same sense you do. I didn't have your gift. I saw the river go from east to west, and it was the opposite of conical. This felt as though it were falling inwards. When your toes curl up, or you sleep on your side, arms bundled close, legs drawn up. Inverted, is the word. When your sweater tag doesn't bother you on particular days. And it can be frightening, but it isn't always bad. So I followed the new direction. Went upstream, the new downstream, thought I would see why this was. Answers to questions_.

She sighed. Felt her daughter sigh along, picking up on the social cue. With only a moment or so to keep that moment going, she kept on. _And after a few minutes of following the river, I saw a man. A large man. Feel your arms. Feel mine. Feel the difference. Then make it large. Make it enormous. Make those arms into the time you hugged a tree. Fell asleep against roots, those were his fingers. The table where you eat your cereal in the morning, those were his eyes. When you feel for the doorway to our home, that was his mouth. He was a giant. Lying down, belly down, and that mouth was open, and he was swallowing the river. You've walked across it before, you know how large he must have been, he was swallowing the river. I couldn't see his teeth. Maybe they weren't there. But the river kept flowing into his mouth, and when he looked at me, shifted his thoughts_ – _the way you sometimes do_ – _I could hear what he had to tell me. He told me, in my mind_ :

Her name will be Samantha. And I will have something to tell her.

I don't remember how that moment ended. In the time it takes for your bath to drain, I was suddenly walking alone, back through the woods.

_But now, here we are. At the same spot, where the river ended in a giant, open mouth_.

Samantha gave her mother a hug. "And now we wait."

She nodded. Put the basket down, filled with sandwiches, juice boxes, fresh fruit, and a bag of carrot sticks. Reached in and pulled out a red-and-white checkered blanket. Laid it flat.

_That's right_ , Samantha's mother said. _And I made us a picnic to help pass the hours_.

Samantha smiled.

Listened to the river and sat down to eat with her mother, as the two of them waited for the time when the coyote winked, the water changed course, and the giant man warned of a day when he would return to tell Samantha something important, because only Samantha was capable of listening.

## #5

## leaving by example.

after six rounds with my new friend for the past few hours, i told her the stages by which to wind her watch, like clockwork, minute to minute, each hour more distant, and she listened with interest in the details of the day i'd finally fade, interrupting only once to say, _your kisses will start to feel like tickles, barely entertaining, just two minutes before i forget there was ever a time when i couldn't wait another second for you to tell me a story_...

... _now. go on_.

## #6

## the what was now.

If you were the kind of person she didn't like, then you were also that sort in severe need of reconciliation. An entire week with the shades drawn. Ceiling fan hypnosis, maybe take the time to wonder if every last thing you thought you knew was simply untrue. And Dalia noticed every last thing. Didn't bother with the corners; if it was you who required a second glance, she would turn her entire face towards yours. Didn't care if she was caught in her curiosity. She would observe, soft brown eyes hidden by a crest of platinum blond hair, but it never took her too long to catalog, and she would turn away. File it under future analysis. Go back to her cigarette. Focused on the what was now: a conversation that might elicit a slight frown, mini-skirt smile, disbelieving raise of her eyebrows. She didn't just nod with her chin. The entire top half of her torso would lean in with each movement, led by her head. If you said something to tickle her funny bone, she would pull back slightly. Her eyes would squint, practically disappear, and her lips would widen, shuddering peals, but it wasn't just the joke landing. As she laughed, you could see each layer of implication rolling over her, gathering, culminating, leaving behind a smile, aftermath of a wave, pulling away, then back to position one. Eyes focused, moving on. Ready for the next moment in the what was now.

One night in late July, she sent wondering eyes, an entire face in my direction from over her side of the bench. She nodded. I placed my gin and tonic on the table, picked up my pack. Kiki was sitting between us, and I reached around, behind her shoulders, to hand Dalia a cancer stick. It slid between her fingers easily. Eyes meeting, she nodded once more, and I reached for my lighter. An operation that required silent synchronicity: we each crossed our legs, respective thighs pressed against the underside of the picnic table, allowing us to rock back. Abdominals working. Simultaneously reaching out. My left arm, her right, taking hold, hands clutched around wrists. She leaned in. Cigarette in her mouth. I reached out. Anchoring each other as I extended my right one, sparked a flame. It was a hot summer night in New Orleans, no wind to put the fire out, and the smoke went swirling between us. We released, withdrew our arms and returned to neutral ground. She turned her face towards mine. I met her curiosity with a nod.

And Dalia returned to position one. Nodding with her upper half, focused. Ready for the next moment in the what was now.

I went back to my drink and thought about Dalia and

thought about the moments before this one.

## #7

## not just asking, this time.

when i was thirteen, i stood at the base of a wooden tongue, night, no rain, and watched as lightning plowed its fingers into the ocean, sand, touched down, and i felt the world drop away, maybe this would be the way to end things, convinced, i ran an entire mile, between purple bolts, lattice of static, straight through twenty-five years later, sprinting hand-in-hand with Bayou St. John, rain and wind like sheets, empty streets, not a single success to slow my final thoughts, which smiled, in a screaming vow of silence, and insisted, never mind the emptiness of your words, trust, thumbprints, or limits to your imagination: you can get the world wet simply by toying with a single, suicidal thought. so i smiled, water pouring into my eyes, kept running, and wished for a pillar of wind to reach across the water and remove me, move me, make it all come falling down.

## #8

## just like that.

Fires had been erupting all across the city. Not spreading, just then, though soon. Not being set, they said on the radio that afternoon, just happening. Not just buildings. Stretches of main streets, asphalt suddenly a logjam of burning red fabric; a circle of flames brought to life at Generation Ballpark, just left of center field; signposts, traffic lights, even the rooftop pool of the newly opened Marriott Hotel and Convention Center had somehow set itself to just what the present held in store for all of us. Verona FD was close to tapped, resources worn down to the point where the radio called for all able-bodied individuals to report to anywhere, anyhow, just wherever they could, because there were fires erupting all across the city, and they said on the radio that afternoon that nobody had any idea why.

We had been hasty with the handcuffs some several hours earlier. Ended up with either wrist seized, both of us chained to the bare-iron bed frame. Snap decision to just keep going. Keys under the bed, nothing else to do but take the occasional break, master those in between moments. Breathing face to face against spread lips. Skin smeared in a wet collage, hair plastered to the point where it appeared someone had marked us with 3D graffiti. No way to turn the radio off. Our final pillow wasted some time ago, no luck, bringing a potted daisy to an untimely end, down from a naked window sill. Cracked clay and soil spread out along the paradise of a square-foot sunbeam.

No room for the world in that bed, and each time, within minutes, there was another each time.

"Try this," Jamie breathed against my forehead.

"Which way?" I asked, tongue out for a run along clavicle tracks.

"Push me this way."

"Just under?"

"Yeah. Just."

"There?"

"Don't slow. Make it move, grab."

"Neck."

"Yes." Then asked, "Okay?"

"Yes. Nails is good, you don't have to worry."

"We're going to burn alive just like this."

I said yes, and another spontaneous burst brought another one to life, this time across the block. A trail of headstones joining in, set ablaze as we switched, just seeing which one of us could fill our mouths with more. Words muffled, gladly choking on the obvious, the length of an entire summer day dedicated to us. Hands clutching for blind friction. Hardwood floor catching on, flames licking. Bare walls buckling. Hips taking all initiative. Salt melting into open scratches, willing welts, blistering, entire room coming into collapse, fires finding their point of origin, leaving the town to lose its mind, broadcast replaced with the vibrating cry of an emergency broadcast because the heat was too much for this planet to handle, and what if it had actually rained that day, just like they said it was supposed to on the radio that morning?

## #9

## red meat.

Kiki Capri kissed my cheek with lips painted an emergency red. Smiled at me, bright eyes you could ice skate across, and assured me she would be right back. I smiled along, ten times over in love, and nodded. Watched her hips make change with the world, stray locks of hair playing with bared shoulders, everything that should have been perfect with the world.

But I went back to my whiskey and soda. Arms crossed over the bar of the Valiant Theater and Lounge. Stomach tensing. What few muscles I had all bound up in a secret. Brain stuck on an endless paragraph. Terrified. Remounting the same production in my head. Staring straight ahead at a litany of high-end bottles, half of which I couldn't name because I was still stuck in the well, such a familiar sight that it felt this familiar feeling wasn't just an accident.

"Hey, Lucky."

Hobbes was at my side. Wavy hair, handsome features. Wiry body of close-knit, well-maintained muscle. Healthy cheekbones, trimmed beard a russet red. Eyes dark, perusing the bar he owned, nurtured. Fought for on a nightly basis.

Brought me back to the what was now. Details of my brain scenario replaced for what passed as reality. Slow night. Empty couches and low-riding cocktail tables. Dim light. Walls painted a wandering gray. Music on a steady jazz kick, bartender on an old-school swing. Candles. Crystal-cut dessert bowls filled to the brim with multicolored mints.

"Hey, Hobbes," I managed.

"Hey, me..." He paused over his beer. Dark bottle of craft, something I would have probably found repugnant. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

Hobbes didn't have any immediate male friends. Then again, he was a mover, shaker, carnival barker. People who work the room don't always have real friends anyway, so I wasn't sure whether his reasons for lack of male companionship had anything to do with mine.

I hated sports. I hated beer. I hated talking about high-end whiskey, unless it was in my mouth, in which case, why bother opening it?

I still didn't know Hobbes very well, but I sensed. Had a notion.

So oddly enough, it felt as though I had been waiting for this moment to say

_I can't shake this daydream from my head. It's been with me for a few weeks now. And it won't leave. Hangs in, hand in hand with two things that happened two years ago_.

And maybe Hobbes paused before saying, _Oh yeah?_

_Bit of a back story. I moved down here with_ – _originally, the reason I moved down here – wait. I moved down here with the intention to kill myself_.

And maybe he nodded.

_Second thing. I'm a vegetarian_.

And maybe he said, _I know. It's a fucking shame. Go on_.

_A few months before I moved, still living in NC and a few days after deciding that New Orleans would be where it would all end... I ordered a hamburger_.

And maybe he asked, and I hoped his voice would dip with a certain concern: _What did you get on it?_

_Answer is in the details. I met two idiot friends of mine for a half-off wine special at bar nearby. I was living paycheck to paycheck and didn't have all that much to spend. Wasn't feeling much of anything. That empty sort of sense you get from watching a bad play. And I thought, why not? When the waitress came up to take our order, I asked for a burger with bacon, bleu cheese, red onions, because, let's face it, nobody on this planet would be kissing my face anytime soon. Also, cooked medium rare. Closer to red. No lettuce. Mayo, tomato, all the rest was fine_.

_My dinner companions cheered, figuring I'd turned a corner, or some such shit. Finally enjoying life, or some other such even more shit. Truth was, I thought maybe biting into a dead cow, topped with two strips of dead Babe might release the right endorphins. Make me feel something_.

And maybe Hobbes took an understanding pull of his beer and asked, _Did it?_

_No. They forgot the bacon, the bleu cheese. The burger was done well, past well, made me wonder who this cow had to fuck to even get into the business, and the bun was torn down the middle. Didn't complain because it didn't matter. Every bite was like what kale or broccoli must taste like to someone like you. It was nothing. A Hail Mary with with no reciever_.

And maybe Hobbes took a sip of his beer, eyes deepening, and motioned with the bottle.

I've been getting this projection. In my head, this vivid daydream... I'm in a restaurant. A fancy one. The kind with cloth napkins, black ties at your table. White dishes set to the side for your bread and butter... I'm at a round table for two. But set only for one. Because it's just me. Next to a floor-to-ceiling window. And it's midday outside, color of spent charcoal. I can see the people walking by, in my head. The ambient noise is so lush, I can isolate every sound. Silverware scraping. Ice cubes popping in fresh water glasses. Twist of a pepper mill some two tables down. Every last moron who thinks others care for their conversations, amplified. Every goddamn commentary, the goddamn problems they have with their domestics, the fucking Peterson account, enough to make me vomit in my mouth, only there's nothing left in there, but soon

_in front of me is a plate with a burger. Cooked to just, just,_ just _right. The kind you see on billboards. Cheese that hugs the patty, but still keeps consistency. Bacon that you barely have to chew because the fat is going to dissolve in your mouth the moment it makes contact with your tongue. One of those twenty-one dollar hamburgers, meal-before-an-execution level of perfection, it is_ so _nice... So great to be alone with just a fucking_ burger, _and such a happy feeling to know it's there because I have just, frankly, and to be clear, just_ given up... _I've given up_.

And maybe Hobbes wouldn't say anything.

_I've been thinking about it,_ I might say, swallow hard, _...and this vision won't. go. away._

But maybe Hobbes never would ask the question, and so I said then instead

"I don't have anything to say for myself." Downed my whiskey soda just to add: "I am an intensely uninteresting person."

Hobbes gave me a _Fuck you_ kind of look.

He licked his thumb and pressed it against my cheek. "Got some Kiki Capri still stuck on you."

He went about his business and left. Me to my own, I brought my fingers together. Intertwined. Terrified. The bartender asked if he could get me anything.

I asked for a burger with bacon, bleu cheese, and no lettuce. Cooked medium rare. Closer to red.

He laughed and served me another whiskey soda.

I didn't laugh, but took what I was given.

Drank deep and crossed my fingers that this chapter would melt along with the ice beneath a New Orleans rebirth, and maybe – shit, fuck, Goddamn, look at those bottles behind the bar – that it wasn't all just starting up again.

## #10

## wreck.

The good news is there's a lot of people out there who can't throw a punch, not worth a damn.

The bad news is that one of the a lot of them is me.

The worse news is there were a lot more of them.

Wish I could say it was heroic. Bunch of white polo prodigies ganging up on a woman, black kid, queer, pick their poison, whatever it was they happened to be hating on that particular evening. Truth is, I'm a coward. The times I've found myself in a fight boils down to the fact that men don't like me. I've got a small soul and a big mouth.

But to bring it all together, wrap it in a bow:

I was just fucking tired. Twenty-two, and hadn't slept or eaten in days. Every time I tried either one, my stomach became a summer solstice, simple extreme. Food is cancerous. Can't live on dreams alone; they're too full of flavor, and what do you do with all that love when you wake up?

There was a mismanagement somewhere inside. False syllogisms.

Having the world figured out was a clever excuse for knocking down everything the world brought my way. Collateral damage. Sometimes I got lucky. Most times the glass slipper belonged to no one.

And sometimes, there was good news.

Other times, I was at the bar, with a pint of gin and tonic on ice. This was the Aussie, last of the dives in Verona, 2001 – pre-Towers, pre-Pentagon, preordained everything. Still able to ride with an ashtray riding shotgun. Ass parked in the vomit seat. Honorary due to the time, a patron had puked long after close. Everyone around him too wasted to sop it up. Bar got closed, cleared out for the night. Left that pile of inside to sit. Soak into the wood. First shift came in next day, tried to wash it away, but way too late. The stench stayed on. A decent parable, fable with an unwritten lesson:

People simply do not clean up after themselves.

People and my own self. Tilting my head past the raucous crowd of locals – food-service denizens, professional drunks, small-time hustlers – my ears tuning into the rare table of Pantheon Grads sharing a pitcher of Yuengling. Sharing their stories. Who was the latest to beat what pussy up, take a pop, how many times in one night... Pooling their tips.

Nothing I can stand less in this world than bad storytelling.

I tried to concentrate on my own reflection, but it only shifted focus into a higher gear. Something about my skinny frame and hunched shoulders. Self-perpetuating blandness, inelegant lips, eyebrows so thick their only hope was that someday butterflies might emerge as a result.

Their voices tuned out all the rest.

"I'm just a lesbian in a man's body."

"Yeah, man, that's me."

"Where the fuck is Sammie?"

"SAMMIE!"

"Lesbian in a man's body, dude. Yes! I am _trapped!_ "

Then they kind of stopped. Wasn't sure why until I noticed them staring at me. Noticed I must have been noticing, because I had turned my head, jaw slack from lack of sleep. I turned to stare. Really stare. Stare at a quintet of faces so indistinguishable it was as though they had taken a vote.

"What?" one of them asked. Maybe with less question mark.

"You're lesbians..." I said.. "Trapped in men's bodies."

"So?"

"All of you," I said, forgetting my cigarette. "Lesbians trapped in –"

"Yeah," came the interruption. "SO?"

I shrugged. "Table of lesbians, so..." I reached back for my cigarette just because I thought taking a drag might sweeten the pot. "I'm going to go ahead and suppose that kind of means you're all kind of attracted to each other..."

Uniformity didn't stop at the skin.

All standing at once, then surrounding me. I was already so bored with our conversation, so ready for it, that words didn't even reach their destination. I knew I was in for a beating. I felt the rest of the crowd turn, each head in the place rippling towards this encounter. Got a fistful of my shirt groped by a set of wing sauce-stained knuckles. They couldn't even make that part interesting.

And when Quigley stepped in to run interference, cut the fuse I had so casually lit, escalation was inevitable. As for the explosion – never quite sure what I saw because I was caught in a six-way cluster of shoves, fists, knees. Knocked off my stool but never quite hitting the ground. Up and down, punching-bag clown, tossed around as a mid-level brawl spread. Caught on. Incendiary remarks turning to brushfires. I felt my temple take a hit. Boney excuse for a chest welcomed a kick that sent me back against the bar. Knocking over my drink. I was the storm, the center, the eye. Hurricane Lucky. Felt the ashtray flip, grey like dead glitter falling, and realized

that Quigley was taking them all on. Others joining in but not soon enough, so I watched with daydreams on hold as they sent him through the window. Total defenestration. Onto the outer deck. The bikers didn't much like drinks soiling their leather duds, leading to instant retribution – but then what?

Quigley's vein was wide open. Blood washed over his thick arms, one of his tattoos sliced down the middle, making me sad, remembering the story behind that particular ink, name of the woman he loved, gunned down some ten years ago. He was looking to stem the tide, reaching for the closest article of clothing, his dirty hair stuck to his pink, pudgy grimace of pain, while I sunk to the floor, nothing but secondary bruises and a realization that not a single punch had landed.

Really landed.

I was a disaster zone. DMZ, nothing but landmines between north and south.

It took days to clean up that mess, and even though Quigley never blamed me, every time we shared a drink, from that moment on, I would see the scar on his arm splitting the murder of his one – could be only – love, right down the middle, maybe to meet again some day.

JAN / ICE.

## #11

## Sable.

Her footprints led to the ocean's edge. She stood where the waves wouldn't touch, naked toes just out of reach from the sea foam. Wasn't sure of much anymore, but she sensed that any premature contact, when the moment arrived, would drag her away. Then down into the depths.

The wind whipped at her tiny micro braids, trace strands of grey, tips playing piano keys along her forehead. Large eyes looking out to watercolors that proved the sun was setting somewhere behind her. Her sundress blew in rhythmic swells. Revealed her knees, tickled at her thighs. She glanced down at her arms. Chill bumps sprouted along dark brown skin, particles of sand caught in the hairs. Glistening.

She waited. Frightened. Confident. Certain that the time had rolled around once more.

Sable tilted her head. Listened to the ocean's echo, a retelling of the night. The night Camilla had taken her out into the eternal. Skinny dip, bare bodies glowing under a full moon. Their saltwater tongues had touched, hands and fingers running the compass, east, west, north south, deep south, to the point where they were locked together so firmly, backs arched, that they resembled a split in the road. Sable's eyes had gone hemispheric, engulfed her face, and the constellations were renamed, shapes she'd never seen standing out, burning, mysteries revealed, even as Camilla's hand slid from between her thighs, around Sable's body, holding her close, riding the waves, ocean current demanding that they rock slowly, rise and fall.

Sable blinked.

Not surprised to find the entire coastline open. Free of people. Not a single surfer, sunbather, hermit with a metal detector. No couples or potential lovers.

Now, ten years later, Sable knew it was time. Woke up that morning alone, with a faraway clarity. Lipstick on the calendar: Anniversary. She had showered. Allowed herself a glass of orange juice before calling the bank, calling in sick. Got into her compact Ford Focus and took 1-40 East, NC-41 N to Topsail Island.

Thought of Camilla's surprised smile in the night light, the moment she realized they had kissed for the first time, understanding that it was about to accelerate, move so swiftly towards so much more. Two breathless moments, and that second kiss had sealed it...

Sable opened her mouth.

Saw the name drift from her lips, out over the horizon, not at all frightened now as the voice came back to her, tiny lick along her earlobe –

_Sable_.

She drew in a breath.

Teardrop going for a spontaneous trip.

Once more.

Once more this time, as the tide did its best to retreat. Searched the ocean. Small waves, minor transgressions, and she felt a sob come, go, as the voice came again.

_Sable_.

And Sable nodded: "Yes."

She reached down. Took a bundle of flowered fabric, hiked her dress into a skirt, because now was finally the when and where of it all.

Sable took her footsteps one at a time. Never doubting. Remembering Camilla's eyes, so blue, even at night, two crystal prisons. Dirty blond hair like majestic seaweed, pressed against a wet round face that radiated... what?

This moment, maybe.

Sable went out across the water and, escorted by the sunset, stepped over the first wave. Then the next. The ocean cruised beneath her feet, fluid conveyer belt as she moved.

Sable walked on the surface, following the voice. So delirious from the wind. Several feet below hers, the seashells gathered just to watch. From somewhere above, the planets would soon make themselves known.

And Sable walked on water that day.

Kept walking towards the horizon, Camilla's voice whispering Sable's name, taking her hand, beyond where they once were forced to stop, one sad, memorable night in mid-July.

##

##

##

## #12

## 378 seconds.

I had 125 seconds left to my name, to the whole world, crouched over the body of an eviscerated man with no name. Somewhere in his mid fifties.

Split from neck down to his crotch. Insides still beating somehow, despite the fact that he had left us a good 306 seconds ago.

"Cut his fucking spleen out!" someone shouted. I looked over my shoulder. Caught a glimpse of a brunette with a ponytail. Clutching her man, a thick buzz-cut Marine with dimples and bloodshot eyes.

"You want to fucking do this?" I asked. Brandished the knife in her direction. "I don't know any more than you do, now let me _fucking think_."

My point made, I stared back down at the body. Now even less time left to figure how it had all come to this. The man in black, taking names, just walked into that bar. Cut this poor motherfucker up and told us. Made it clear.

I closed my eyes, wishing there was some sort of clue in his final words before he simply vanished into thin air.

_My name is Mr. Blank. And now there is a bomb in this man. And the world will end in 378 seconds unless you disarm his body_.

Then the man, dressed in nothing but the darkest colors save for a pair of pink cleaning gloves, pulled a fucking Houdini.

Couldn't even remember how I took down that last shot of whiskey while everyone else screamed, screamed, filling the goddamn place with their misplaced cacophony, because nobody gave a fuck about that old man before that moment.

Hadn't I taken a moment to help him with his chair?

Before?

Why?

Who cares. Didn't seem to fucking matter.

All I wanted for Christmas was my two front teeth and a planet where I could someday lose them to a left jab, a car accident, a threesome gone wrong, an anything other than _this_.

"Well, _FUCKING DO SOMETHING!_ " someone yelled.

Good point. I shook my head clean of the cigarettes, whiskey so dirty with impurities it practically shrieked my name, skin on a backwards crawl.

I put the knife in my mouth. Reached into the body of this time bomb. Felt the warmth of entrails wrapping around my wrist, doing my best to stop whatever Mr. Blank had started.

The jukebox was still spitting out a torrent of Depeche Mode, reminding us all at full volume that this was THE DAWNING OF OUR LOVE.

"Fuck." I reached in some more. Anything. A hint.

"Cut his fucking intestines!" someone shouted.

I remember him as the dick who had just told his mistress she couldn't handle the needs his other mistress covered. Decked out in a three-piece. Drinking the best single malt and bitching to the TV about how corporations were being taxed to death.

"CUT HIS FUCKING INTESTINES!" he repeated. Shrill words giving away some inner rabbit, frightened and out of control.

"Large or small?" I shot back. "You want fries with that? DO something or fucking KILL YOURSELF!"

I wrapped my fingers around a kidney. It laughed at me, pulsated in Morse code.

I closed my eyes. Did I know Morse code? Hadn't I learned it somewhere, before the center of the universe had narrowed its shallow gaze on this one bar?

The bartender, only person worth a good damn, knocked back a bottle of Blue Label and smacked his lips. "Thirty seconds till the end of the world, Lucky."

Well yes, but that got me thinking.

I once saw a group of college preps kicking the shit out of a homeless man. Railing on him. Went to town, doing all they could to prove that agony was their ink, rest of the world their parchment. Rules by them, for them, not to follow but for the rest of us to remember.

And I had told myself, several times over, that I would stop them.

And I remembered several times over in the final seconds before the end of all things how I didn't do a goddamn thing to stop them.

That same well-acquainted fear reaching into me, forearms deep in another human being.

Yes, the world needed someone to save it.

Yes, there were five seconds left and I had to make a choice.

Red wire, blue wire.

Kidney, liver. Left lung, right lung.

Heart.

If it wasn't for that bartender sending me a sad smile over the heads of the crowd, letting me know it was okay, because who would have thought this would be our lives when we woke up this morning,

If it wasn't for him I would have taken three more seconds.

Instead I sent my hand up the dead man's chest.

Reached for the heart.

Figured that was it. That had to be it.

Took the knife in my left hand and raised it above my head.

"STOP!" Someone yelled. Maybe it was the brunette, or the man with two lovers, or any other of the countless nobodies who had lied and fucked their way through this dismal excuse for a planet.

Too late.

I drove the knife home and wondered for a moment, the final seconds, whether I would ever live to finally see Kiki Capri standing on the sand downwind of the Silver Slipper.

## #13

## that's the fucking game.

Growing up, the boys who claimed to be my friends were idiots. We all were, but at least we knew none of it mattered or made any sense. We all loved tits. We all loved hips, lips, fingertips. I thought we all loved girls. Not to say any one of us turned out to be gay. I just honestly thought there was an unspoken consensus, that we all loved girls.

The boys in the band managed to hook up with hideous frequency. I enjoyed what I could, thankful for every little bit of fortune that smiled in my direction. Never had a way to say it back then, but kissing, tongues, having a decent moment licking along inner thighs, faces pressed together in the rain – I lived and died for anything that felt real.

We never talked about those moments. That was boring. Details were boring. Who cared what girl, what position, in what room? Looking back, it's several side-steps short of unbelievable how little we knew about where our extremities had been. Looking back, at the time, I took comfort that stories trumped details.

Then I moved away, north to New York.

Then I came back south, and the boys in the band had taken to singing new songs.

"Ha!" Chester laughed, leaning against the bar. Blue eyes free of their edge, lazy now. Devil-may-care grin turned inside-out to the devil who did. "Remember that girl in Pasadena?"

"She was so desperate, dude. Her pants were almost off before we went on!"

"Don't even remind me of that fat chick Chet nailed."

"I was drunk!"

"Dude. We were ALL drunk, so what was my ass doing with tank-top girl, and that fucking chick who worked, I don't know, some fucking tight-ass job?"

"Bank."

"Yeah. We called her Sperm Bank, right?"

I ordered another beer and pretended to be across the pool hall. Kept a close eye on Nick Reckless, now some several years older than sixteen, joining in. "What about, come on, Chet?! When ADF was in town and you told that group of ballet dancers that you were a fucking yoga instructor!"

"I know! I look like SHIT!"

"Whatever, you don't look enough like shit."

Nick had never played with the boys in the band, let alone struck out for San Francisco to seek his fortune with them. But new additions to the crew had left their impressions.

Two men with their personal brands burning hot.

One in particular, I knew, was the mastermind behind this new paradigm.

Chet called me to action. He'd lost a game of 9-ball to Jamie, who stood by the felt, cue stick in hand. Taller than anyone had a right to be. Curly surfer hair. Tanned, toned. Blue eyes created in the vacuum of a hidden laboratory. Too pleased with dominion to bother retrieving any of the pocketed balls.

I went ahead and racked. He watched the whole time. Sizing me up. The crowd at _On The Rail_ was buzzing that night. Side bets, jukebox favorites, secrets, street smarts, and hustles. None of it touched Jamie. An invisible hazmat suit surrounded him, electric field, repulsing, creating an empty world.

"I get to break, bro." His voice was a flatline, stretching out and over, cellophane wrapper, end of the everything.

I picked up my stick, nodded. "Yeah. Winner breaks. The way that goes."

"Just saying..."

He didn't elaborate on what he was just saying. Went for the snap and got lucky enough to sink the seven. Did a good job on the two. Prowled around the table. Looking for an angle on the three. Lifted his shirt and ran a hand over his six-pack, reminding himself of the effort it took to look that good.

He blew the three.

Straightened and rolled his eyes, blaming the table. I went low and misread the leave. Cue ball, right off the red and into the side pocket.

"Ball in hand," I told him.

"Yeah, I know."

He took the cue ball and placed it behind the three. The three, right next to the nine, right next to the left corner pocket. Easy combo even for an amateur, and he stood tall after the win, staring at me as though there was something else he needed.

"Ok," I said.

"What?"

"It's etiquette around here, in a friendly game, to not use ball in hand for a kill shot. Around here, the game is supposed to last. Creativity. Let the table tell a story."

He shrugged, and his eyes were so far gone from alive. "That's the fucking game, man."

And how do you argue with humanity's bottom line?

I nodded, went to the bar and tapped Chet's shoulder. "You're up."

"Thanks, man." He downed his longneck and hugged me. Pat on the back, a little too hard for my taste. "We should hang out more often."

"Sure."

Chester went to join his new mentor. I watched long enough to catch Jamie glancing my way. Saying something, then laughing. Terrible, hollow sounds harmonizing with Chet's unrecognizable smile.

I ordered a beer. Drank.

Overheard Nick Reckless and the boys in the band talk the talk.

"Ok, but when you fucked her, tell me she was facing away from you."

"Needle nose!"

"Always points north!"

"Yeah!"

That one didn't make sense.

Though it all stood to reason.

I took a look over my shoulder as Joe Jackson stormed the juke, wondering, _Is she really going out with him?_

Saw Jamie take another shot. Spread his lips in a passive grin.

I would have punched him in the face if I didn't know there was another one laying just underneath. I wasn't charming. Wasn't fun. Didn't give license. Didn't have the qualities, details, drive to bring men into my inner circle.

And maybe that was the key.

My boys had become men.

Time to let go.

Just to know that maybe I was no better than them.

Just to know exactly how fucked this world would be in another ten years or so.

## #14

## wild palm.

Just over the six-five wooden fence and some thirty feet beyond, a palm tree stands tall, her crown in its entirety peeking out and over, shag haircut a dark green. Neighboring lights keep her visible at night, create a double exposure of stark silhouette and a glowing, outlined aura. And on nights when a storm has just missed New Orleans, distracted by other places to lay waste, you can witness the influence.

Whenever the wind blows west, she wraps herself in affection. In love, careening with a sense of her own existence.

Southbound breeze brings coercion. A rustle, somewhat softer, that suggests submission. Petioles bent. Leaves horizontal, green razors like pinstripes against the stars pointing outwards, splayed. Taking dictation, orders, going along with it, momentary blindfold.

The east winds are mild, and it makes for the slightest tilt. Curiosity. Conclusion. Expecting what might come next, or when the clouds might change directions.

North isn't something she's particularly fond of. Could be habit, something in the roots. Memories imbedded in scars along the trunk, wearing her rings on the outside. You can see her leaning into it. Resistance for what's planned, a secret agenda to bend against the weather.

When they all blow together it signals a chaotic revival, all parts moving in such agreement that her undulations are the ones creating the winds. To someone far away, in several days, this illusion is as strict as the certain truth.

And my influence is laughable. I watch, passively observe, keep an eye, both eyes trained, because she moves. And when the winds change direction, the only assurance I have is that this is her. Wild palm with an ever-shifting, spiraling lifeline that runs along petiole to leaf sheath, all along the stem, and who would have guessed such a pattern would be printed against the mute affections of a windswept midnight friend.

## #15

## i'll have what i'm having.

I am a consummate flavor of the month. Say what they will about me as a lover, I do actually have a way of arousing curiosity. Chalk it up to how I keep my mouth shut and my tendency to stare into the distance, perpetrating something resembling a soul, when all that it comes down to is wondering what that street corner has to say about its day. I arouse curiosity. Puzzle box. An empty subscription wrapped in the left half of a newspaper. But after the fact, when it turns out there's nothing else I'm able to arouse and curiosity is the only thing I'm capable of satisfying, they pay the check and move on. Isn't always a bad game. Teaches you to enjoy naked moments while they last in preparation for departure. Flavor of the month can last as little as said month, two, never more than six in my experience. The numbers that dominate this scoreboard stagger the imagination, temporary fans rising to their feet. But once someone understands, figures out there's nothing to figure out, then there's nothing left to say. Reach for a wish, listen to cat scratches against a screened window. Take comfort in consistency. Don't imagine there could be anything more than passing interest. Bad gambling on the green felt, envious of myself, up one instant, down come the next flip, pair of rags; the secret is a quick fold, though time and again I have hoped. Unfortunate moments where I open the door and welcomed them in. Gave them a tour. They sit and listen by the lampshade, maybe have a cigarette when it suits them, then recognize something.

And when the bus came to an abrupt halt, I woke up from a dream I can't say that I remember letting in. Assaulted by detail on all sides. Eyeball pressed so close to the window that smears of six a.m.got rerouted. Senses undead. Sniffing, smelling the scent, a cheap pinot grigio. The rattle of a drumroll. Impossible sound for a Greyhound ride, and it only got louder. Detached my face, glanced down. Felt moist stains up along my shirt, all down my tired jeans. Saw an empty bottle, rolling past tattered loafers. Rolling something fast, fast tracking to the front, my nostrils now moistened with vinegar; stale wine stolen from that room in Greensboro. Driver barking our current destination. North Carolina, Verona stop. Cheap duffels sliding from the overhead. Unconscious grunts and shuffles. Skin on fire. Hoisting my book bag, joining the rest. Stepping out into October frost on the cracked lot of a tire emporium, what passed for a bus station back in those days.

The driver asked me, "Boy, was you the one drinking on this ride?"

I replied in swift Spanish, long and unintelligible enough to get him disgusted, annoyed, waving me along.

I hoofed it over to Elva's Diner, asked for a counter seat. Got ushered along with a laminated menu and a strange look. Typical look, if we're feeling like playing favorites. I stared at the words for a bit, hashbrowns on a loop, when

Korben slid up to me, surprised to see me so early. Let all the other details slide, he'd seen me early before. Played with his dreads, already wondering if he would have to kick me out for whatever reason I always managed to manifest. Told him it would be fine if he brought me a grapefruit juice, and I'd do the rest. He laughed, rapid bursts through a beautiful smile of gapped teeth. Brought me my mixer. Tried to keep cool as I reached into my bag and added a few fingers of Aristocrat.

"Dude."

"Ok."

I had a few draws from the straw. He asked me where I'd been.

And I told him.

"I was at a party a month ago in Greensboro. Drinking just a little bit of what you just seen. Brought up there by your brother. Met a girl. White, weathered skin, hair that went straight down, bordering on plain if you were to ask whether she's hot, but eyes that willowed, and a smile that simply did not exist."

"Ok," he nodded. "So maybe get you some huevos rancheros?"

"Drank myself into wasn't even sure. After a few hours of sitting side by side with her, on the grass..." Realized I was still drunk and people were sending thoughts in my direction. "She went to the bathroom, and I wandered over to your brother's car. Opened up that back seat, slid some sheet music out of the way and took a nap. Woke up to the sound of her knocking on the window. Cigarette clamped between her teeth. Opened the door and asked me, _So are you coming home with me, or what?_ "

Even Korben had to admit he'd found _impressed_ on the menu. "You do have a way."

"I did have a way."

"You went home with her?"

"I did go home with her."

"Once?"

"Took a Greyhound back and forth between Verona and Greensboro more times than I can count."

"Thought you said this was only a few months ago."

"Well," I mainlined some of my drink. "What can I tell you? She was a dancer. Lovely legs. I wasn't too good at pleasing her. Cooked her dinner, once. Told her some stories. Told her about me."

Korben gave me the kindness of a sad look. "Flavor of the month?"

I tilted my head back, swallowed an ice cube. "How'd you know?"

"Lucky," he tried for another smile, off center by some thousand miles. "You _are_ boring. Get some hashbrowns or get a fucking life."

...but he did let me stay at the counter.

People get disinterested, but have you ever seen how every last wreck on the roadside speaks with its own kind of siren song? Crumpled bumper, hood askew, door bashed all to hell, mile high? I took another sip of grapefruit and Aristocrat. Reached for a napkin. Pulled out a pen and and wrote down the lessons, underlined title reading _the saddest song in the world_.

...Though it is a funny thing to look back on, long as this doesn't make you want to know more about me.

Otherwise, you find mist, exit signs, or drip of a billboard placed against the scenery.

## #16

## Oregon trail.

just a brief reminder while you're waiting, and the third to first person in line chews their gum, and second to last wonders what they did to wind up ignoring what the couple in front of you did so right in the last life that they ended with their lips pressed so hard that they bled, simply let their insides crawl from their mouths while you watched, how they could maintain such scintillation as the line moved forward, closer, and just one hand slipped inside, and no one else noticed those fingers moving, faster, wordless opinions wet as an unnamed source close to her ear, while she closed her eyes, left for the west, and called out "next."

## #17

## broad daylight.

At first, I didn't know what I was seeing. Second glance solidifying the fact that, yes, there was a man crawling into the sewer.

By the time I had rounded the corner where St. Patrick meets Palmyra, his head was already in the drain. So just a torso, legs, arms spread out across the pavement. Hands pressed into the curb, wan talons with a plastic sheen. Digging in, though no sense that anything was pulling at him. That would have made more sense, and maybe this secret would have been 34 or 35 on the list. But he wasn't being dragged. If he was a he. White dress shirt. Grey slacks. White sneakers pointing outwards in a plié. He wasn't struggling. Whatever it was, he was _digging_. Fingertips making actual indentations in the slanted concrete. Using that alien strength to _move in_.

And when I stopped to decipher just what I was witnessing, it happened fast. Fingers disengaging, elbows forming a pair of upright pyramids, before slithering in, embracing the storm drain, accepting the rot. So now his head, torso, and suddenly, fucking waist were in there, and I swear I could see sharp protrusions from the iron overhang, taking a bite, and he was still so willing to _surrender_.

Purpose-driven life.

One last gasp like milkshake dregs through a straw, and he was gone. I felt there might have been a popping sound at the end there. Satisfied smack of that moment when you know your meal is done.

Only noticed the sounds returning once I discovered they had hushed . Children walking home from school. Men laughing outside the corner store, crack of a tallboy just down the block. Planes overhead. Cars violating potholes on nearby crossroads. Cathedral bells signaling half past, well past.

My only other choice was to stay rooted to the spot. Middle of Palmyra Street, where a car could come by at any moment and make a moment out of me.

So I stepped forward. Walked along the gutter, closing in on the site of my hallucination. Noticed a fresh puddle around the opening. It was close to a hundred degrees in the Crescent City that day, no way that was rain.

I stood, my feet confronting the drain.

Magnetic tug insisting that I bend down.

Take a look for myself.

Most likely how that man had ended up down there in the first place. Or whoever had come before him, or her, or it, whoever. Whatever.

I crouched low.

Felt the clouds part. Summer brightness lapping at my neck.

Got lower. Knees on the street, rough surface scraping through my denim jeans.

Resisted the urge to plant my palms.

Leaned in.

No sign of anyone peering back at me.

But the void wasn't entirely in keeping with its namesake.

Hanging just past the underside of the drain was a scrap of paper. Meal ticket from a greasy spoon with no POS. Something scrawled on the surface. Black marker, but still too dim to read its suggestion, prophecy, its plan for me.

I reasoned with my head, _Don't do it_.

Hand not knowing what was best for any of us.

Reaching in.

Fingers closing around the note.

Ripping it free.

Arm now back to where it was supposed to be.

Daylight offering what it had to say for itself, and what was written there was

SECRET #17

And from inside the sewer, I heard someone smile.

So I finally shot up, legs pumping, and ran up the steps to our home. Key twitching into the security gate, swinging open, same with the door, and it was done, slammed shut behind me.

I leaned my back against the wood.

Rested my head.

Remembered to breathe.

Then remembered the note.

Secret #17.

Turned and looked at the door, as though

it would better my chances, lock doubling my luck, when it came to keeping the outside from coming in.

## #18

## Lucky.

I could let the hours glide, seconds tick along to the radiator, watching Anya sit on the window sill. Cigarette between her fingers. Elbow resting on her knee, drawn up. Secondary leg stretched along the outcrop. Brown eyes between wide lids, watching the tower of neighboring apartments. Half-two in the morning and most all those rooms have their midnight oil burning bright. Stained glow mingled with Washington Square illumination brings out a deeper hue from her pallid skin. Smoke trickles from puckered feline lips, traces sketch-artist circles up through the open window. Swirls headed for a waning satellite, and this dark room does wonders for those blond curls falling past bare shoulders. Evidence of a cigarette burn. Back arching against the winter. Giving in to the cold. Curvature leading down to a penny stuck to her hip for how long now?

She turns to face me, tilt of her head, just for the sake of a question: "What?"

My lips work against the cotton filter, bright glow of a twitching ladybug. "So close to perfect."

"What would be perfect?"

"If it was raining right now."

"Yeah?"

Propped up in bed, thinking just maybe. "Yeah."

Anya tosses her hair back and gives the everything a smile.

Lightning strikes somewhere in the city.

All we see is the light, waiting for thunder to shake the walls.

And when it does, it comes with rain.

From where, I don't know. Not a cloud in the sky, but I think Anya doesn't bother with details, and it takes less than seconds. Four or five drops against the glass before thousands make their way in through the open window. Their friends and family beating against the building. Begging to be let inside.

Anya laughs. Her body turns wet, water running down her face, landscaping, detouring past chest, breasts, belly, from the top of her bent knee, flowing to join the rest down past her thighs, and the moon is still out, her entire body shining.

Turns to face me. Hair soaking, into and against her face, mouth open.

Water spraying from her lips as she asks, "How about that, Lucky?"

And her cigarette miraculously continues to burn bright in the window, allowing for all outsiders to stare in wonder at this warning, while miles away oceans crash against the shallows.

## #19

## maytwentyeighteen.

standing at gulf's edge, watching emerald waves roll in with the latest news, spread themselves at my feet, sediment for sandpipers, sun with an afternoon glare that sends cat paw clouds towards the horizon, where storms ring warning bells; still too far for thunder, replaced by the hungry reminder of jet engines, twin fighters that rip on high, drain the sky, ocean, celestial sand of all detail, demanding that we all tilt, send stares upwards, abandoning one another, everyone, witnessing, target locked, and sometimes it's the graveyard that whistles past us.

## #20

## wind your watch.

I was thirteen years old and suddenly, there was a family business.

And suddenly, there was a room, 30th floor of a hotel in Sydney, Australia. Bedroom for my parents, common room for me. Never mind the comfort of a luxury couch. Yes, forget that nudity on the TV was something, in pre-internet days, that came close to post-apocalyptic currency. Ignore the temptation to try 1:30 a.m. room service for the first time in a lifetime.

What mattered was the telescope. High powered. Came complimentary in every room, nothing I questioned. Though I think I know why my recollection insists that it was studded with diamonds. Every room. That meant windows facing east, west, north and south. And that meant they must have known that all there was across from our side was another hotel.

I think we faced west.

With our TV turned to a low volume, I crept to the window. Anticipation. There was a certain surgical way about how I went about it. Eye to eyepiece. Focusing. Ok. One window. Next. Next. Next. Next. Cataloguing. I kept track of how the angle felt for each silver screen, preview of what I would never be a part of. It took only minutes. Sometimes even less to memorize the position of my scope.

The room with the East Asian women, seniors, gathered around a card table. A reunion, I wanted to gather from what I saw.

Gray haired man fresh out of the shower, naked and talking to a topless woman, absently slipping into lingerie. Something about it that made me feel the marriage could either be fresh off the press or yesterday's news.

Pair of kids jumping on the bed. Mother seated at a table, face planted in the curvature of upturned palms. Possibly crying. Not as though I could ask her, even though that's all that I wanted.

Not as much as I wanted to check the next slide. Back of someone's head, peeking from behind the couch. Checking out the same skin flick I was pretending to watch. All lights extinguished. Flickers of tits, calves, on-set sweat projected in chlorinated ripples along the walls, in a pool of colors with no one to draw close, take what little effort to wrap legs around weightless encounter.

I let out a low murmur.

That sound means _turn the page_ – to a frustrated sort of man, writing in a notebook. Cigarette smoldering in a glass ashtray. White tank top, stripped from the waste down. All wrinkles. Four different suits hanging throughout the room. A gallery, perhaps. Art installation. Or maybe a desperate list. Pros and cons, which one to wear, because tomorrow would be the most important day of his life.

I caught a kiss between two men, one floor down. The suicidal kind I couldn't recognize because I was years from understanding, the kind that requires that you touch someone's face, take in all that you can while you still can. One night only. Maybe years in the making. Only one night, just now? Whatever came next, it would never be again, and whatever came next was cut short by the snap of purple curtains.

Checking in. Now that I had it down, I could guide my Galileo and take in all he needed. Window one, friends laughing, one crying. Naked man, topless woman, argument lasting so long they remained unable to clothe themselves. Those kids hugging their mother – or was it another, they seemed so close, but some secret had just slipped. Soft-core porn over and done with, the frustrated clicks of a remote leading this individual to put a phone to their ear after dialing a number, some alternative form of room service I couldn't bring myself to giggle about. The man with the notebook gone now. Not there, never was. Curtains still drawn, shame that they couldn't be that way with each other every night, shame that I had missed this singular meeting.

I went and came, back and forth between the exciting and mundane, but that last word was never true to itself. Nothing everyday about the everyday. I was never one for sleep. I grew up unable to close my eyes at the demands of either tick or tock. Never understood why. Because, eventually, sleep would find its way inside.

And now this, hotel rooms with open-ended, glass-panel narratives.

The rush of what I might catch, if I just stayed distant.

My entire body sent through the telescope, wondering if maybe I wasn't born that night, thirteenth hour on planet possibility, relating and keeping watch. Watching through eyepiece and objective as the sun grew bright twelve hours in a new and different direction.

## #21

## his name was Sandy.

The bright side of a five hour stretch at the bar was that you never knew when you'd find yourself side by side with a secret. The downside was what to do with all that you'd just learned.

I had taken this seat in a bar. In the middle of the day. Down in New Orleans. Hopes of a shot if life were so fortunate, a sentence or two if my muse would still have anything to do with me. Back turned to the windows, through which cars emptied themselves from Fairground gates. Even with races done for the day, I could still hear the hooves. Clumps of fresh turf and mud shooting up between legs like pistons, flanks numbered like take-a-number tickets at the butcher shop. Loudspeaker giving everyone a reason to rave. The 20 I lost on 5, the 40 I won off 6 to place, the 100 or so I blew on a pony who took a shit in his paddock, so running a little lighter than the rest, but come that actual stretch I guess he didn't have it in him.

"Cats," the drunk told me. Stocky, freckled white face with a hat of red hair. Nobody you'd remember, unless you were unfortunate enough to start paying attention. He drew his pint in close. Favored himself with an Irish accent as he leaned into his stout. Drank. Drew back. "A true thief knows his nuts. What you might call casing a joint. You want to get authentic? Go with a home invasion. It's the worst, Lucky."

Shit, he knew my name.

And I knew his secret.

Had to act fast, and signaled for a couple of shots. Jameson.

We took them down, ignoring the proud smile of an empty stage across the room.

He wiped his mouth. "So here's the secret to a good one. Here's the way you want to work it. Anybody with a cat. Cat wants to be let in, cat paws at the door. Their owner opens the door. That's it."

I had a cat. Two cats. Evenly distributed between myself and current lover, Kiki. Before then, another cat named Tricky. Brought into my life while living with my ex, a cat she brought in from the cold to replace Hank – another black shorthair courtesy of another ex-girlfriend – scooped from the streets and placed next to my pillow while I slept.

"Here's what it is, Lucky," the drunk said.

Got me motioning for another round of shots; still knew my name.

"I love my cat. Her name –" He hiccupped. "Is Sandy. She likes to swim. I know, strange thing for a cat to do. Every time, though, that I let her out, I have to hold my piece..." He gave the waistband of his jeans a pat to prove he was packing. Too big for a .22, too small for a .45. "The bright side to figuring an angle, Lucky, is you get to exploit it. The downside is what to do, knowing someone else might be playing it as well."

I received another pair of brown bullets.

We took them down gracefully and I was starting to ponder, stop-gap, band-aid, how long could I keep listening and not be complicit...

"You hang around outside a person's house long enough, you know they have to let their cat in. She lets her cat in, you can watch. She lets her cat in, people let their cat inside their homes. So what next? All you have to do is wait. Having a cat scratch at the front door is like a Tinder alert that it's about to be on, son."

_Son_ was a good sign. Very least, not a bad start.

Asked him if I had remembered to introduce myself, got a solid shake to the contrary. The Jameson had done its job: erasure. I kept relief in check, swallowed that sigh with a tug of Bud and shook his hand. "Sebastian Montero."

"Liam Fitzpatrick."

No doubt he was slinging a name as fake as the one I had served. But that was best left for phase two. Phase one had one last step. I called for another full round. Pint, bottle, two Irish whiskeys for the big spenders. Excused myself to the little idiot's room. Marched into the stall, no time to lose my nerve, so closing the door would have to wait. Kneeled. Opened wide. Two fingers down my throat. Inhaling a ripe ipecac of piss and yesterday's shit stains. Sent a ballistic missile of brine into the toilet. Two pumps of my stomach, one final retch. The bright side of forgetting to eat was no bits and pieces rattling in the back of your throat. The downside was that it gave the drink a playground with no sandbox, and if I was going to get him to give me his real name, this toilet was looking at two, maybe three more visits from me.

I shuddered. Flushed.

Wiped my tears from the bathroom mirror and stayed frosty.

Ready for phase two, only to stride back to my seat and find an empty barstool where Liam once sat. Twenty dollar tip left in his wake. I asked the bartender if Liam had stepped outside for a smoke. Bartender shrugged and told me Liam was just plain done. For the evening.

"Took care of the drinks," bartender said, knuckle digging into the corner of his left eye. "Said he'd be seeing you again."

I nodded. Took a seat, felt the evening air forcing its way in through the open door. Noticed there was still one pint, one bottle, and two shots to contend with.

Swallowed the Jameson whole and set to work on my beer.

Finished the beer and set to work on a plan.

The bright side to years spent parked in a bar is that it prepares you to deal with anything. The downside to anything is when that wheel stops, anything becomes something, and finally lands on your number.

## #22

## on lock.

when i was 14, i found myself trapped in a room while a quarterback boyfriend did his best to make clandestine love to his girlfriend Nancy, whom i had adored since second grade, and their sleeping bag was stationed up against the door, so no escape, and i ducked on the other side of the bed and curled up, and i remember wishing they were making more noise, so at least i wouldn't have to imagine, but there those images stayed, brought the fight, and i did the instead, thought about a February birthday, and branches, and a murder of crows taking flight, and the first time i saw someone pouring salt on a snail, the way light bends through windows, carpet fibers like tube worms along a tectonic rift, a size two stepping on an ant hill on purpose, the dead squirrel, the time i wasn't good enough for anything, for anything, or the other time, for anything, and i thought about years, so far in the future, and that was the problem, i thought about power, and the smug sense of control i might have someday, overshadowing the first time i touched a cemetery wall, or the first time i saw Sonia, the afternoon forced through green robes of ivy, everything that was good in the world was flipped for the sake of how small, uninvolved, unnecessary i felt or knew, had to know how unimportant i was to individuals, situations, the world, and i let it chase me, running enraged races around the track because it sticks with you, dirty needles, beaks pecking, sensing the image of beady eyes, and there were a flock of people to tell about it, but when was the last time anyone listened to someone trapped in a room, thinking finally about that door.

i slipped my hand down my pants, and there wasn't much poetry after that.

##

##

## #23

## spider/man.

I got a lot of good memories with my friend named Rome, most of them bad, so it's sad that this one should stand out. But that's the nature of secrets – #23, if the lights on the triple-C bridge have anything to say about it.

We were drinking in my one-bedroom those blurred and aimless Verona days. A near-empty rectangle of hardwood floors and high ceilings. Ensconced by bald walls and a pair of looming casement windows, three stories above the gravel parking lot. Lamp in the corner burning bright, spherical midnight. Loose-leaf paper scattered like ripe snowflakes.

I was seated at the cheap bridge table. Ass parked in a second-hand roller chair, black tattered vinyl exposing jaundiced foam. Rome was sitting in a green, fold-out monstrosity, poached from the curb some several weeks earlier. Working on a beer, some kind of statistic that couldn't be assigned any sort of value. I was matchmaking. Keeping pace and then some with my own bottled garbage. Occasional chaser in the form of a fifth, Kentucky Gentleman.

I put out my cigarette. Ashtray stuffed to the gills with crippled filters.

Rome took off his shirt. Wrapped it around his head, sheltering greasy, matted curls. Drawing attention to his arched nose, shifty eyes overflowing with anti-social intelligence. Pasty skin, white and glistening from summer sweat. He picked up a plastic carrot and pretended to smoke it, mimicking my drawn out drags.

"My point is," he said, as though we hadn't been sitting in silence for over an hour... "My point is, there isn't one thing or the other." His vowels were wide, resounding. Back of the throat. "So if I told you I had a few pennies, then that's not that much. I mean, I _do_ have a few pennies, and there's no genie looking to rub my antler. Antlers. Both of them!" He took a pull of beer, lamplight putting a shine on his wire-rimmed glasses. "Pennies are dumb, then. I don't care. I can fuck pennies till I die. I don't live on a peninsula. Which is where pennies are from. But anyway..."

I nodded. "But anyway."

"But anyway..." Rome continued. "Pennies, a few. No big deal. If I was to tell you I had a few battleships, that would be very impressive. I am surprised I even have a single one. But if I was to tell you I only had, say, even two battleship –" He burped.

"Battleships," I said.

"If I had even two battleship...."

He stared at the ground.

Saw a spider standing on the hardwood floor.

On all eights.

We could have sworn, or at least Rome was certain, that it was staring up at him.

He wasn't thinking. Or maybe he was, or maybe they were one and the same, his move dictated by self-absorption and pallid narcissism. In as much time as it took to realize it was happening, it happened.

Raised his foot, brought his worn sneaker down on the spider.

Left it there, evidence of his mission.

I chased the stomach ache with a shot of bourbon. "Why did you do that?"

"Because it was annoying me."

"That a good enough reason to kill it?"

"It's a spider."

"Are you a battleship?"

"Whatever."

He lifted his foot. The spider's corpse gave birth to a hundred or so tiny mites. Miniature arachnids teeming, sprawling, spiraling in a landlocked whirlpool. Abandoning ship. Rushing full steam from their creator, her body crumpled, choked, flattened in a Picasso afterlife.

Mother descending a staircase.

Rome looked up.

I stared back. Silent, because what more was there to say.

I sent a beer his way.

He tried the top. Twisted. Forgetting that this was a pop cap.

I handed him the opener.

He did himself the honors and took down three large gulps. Got some on his chin, down to his sunken chest, hairs glistening.

He took the shirt from his head and let his curls speak freely.

Rome didn't realize just how many somethings were flooding his world.

He wiped himself off, sniffed. "I think that instead of horses, we should have moreses. Because who wants less of anything? Unless it's a battleships."

I had to agree with that, at least, as the apartment filled with baby refugees.

2:30 in the a.m., middle of our twenties.

We kept about the business of lying to ourselves.

## #24

## polarity.

the sun came out at midnight, and the world went dark.

i watched from my window as the simultaneous snap of a million minds rolled across the planet in a deafening thunderclap, and doors went flying all along Cheshire drive, spitting out somnambulist drones, unconsciousness turned into invert, nightmares dragged into the streets, and they screamed, loud, symphonic to the point that there could be no doubt, this would be the last beautiful thing to ever occur, the end of all mystery, every one of them thrown headlong into the next phase, malformed existence, their eyes waterlogged, and i sat at my window, smoked, drank the remainders of red, shed my skin and wondered how things were faring on the other face of the earth.

## #25

## epitaph.

There it was, all that was left of him. Or at least a hint of what was left. The tombstone wasn't proof of anything; just a big toe protruding from the ground, birth date, death date tattooed along the nail.

Alice needed more. Dropped the duffel, listened to her tools clink from within. Unzipped. Started with the pickaxe. Held it before her for a brief one, waiting for the band to strike up. Then with a clear view from beneath the half moon, she gave the ground a few rounds. Softened the senses. Flecks of dirt pelted her shins, the sod making damp, satisfied sounds.

Next, the shovel. Tip of the spade inserted, following through with a press from black combat boots – the only sound article of clothing she had bothered to wear. No black jeans. No dark, skintight turtleneck. No gloves, even. All said items replaced with a cornflower blue sundress. Thin and limp, hanging off her body far differently than it had 40 years ago. Her frame was shorter now. Boney. Hardly anything left to fill out any portion of her past. The only constants were a single long rip along the back of the skirt and a broken strap, still tied together by the double knot Alice had fastened one morning after it had been ripped away.

She was one foot in, only, and her arms were already aching. Silver strands came undone from her bun as she swung with a hypnotic rhythm to her work. By the time she hit three feet, her body was coated in sweat. She could feel the drops running along the wrinkles of her shoulders, face. So many more roads to travel, places to go, dropping to the dirt beneath her boots. Palms like swamplands. Only thing keeping the shovel from slipping from her grip were newly formed blisters burning into her hands. Joints popping. Digging deep through the pain. And by the time she was five feet down, it felt as though half of the moistened soil she threw over her shoulder would come raining back down on her. The smell of earth coupled with the sight of severed worms, beetles crawling across her arms, up her legs, blind and hungry. By the time she was six feet under and could actually taste the gravesite in her mouth, she hit her destination. Scrapped the shovel. Started digging with her hands, open sores crying fire, one or two nails tearing, flipping backwards, hanging uselessly until they finally broke clean, became part of the ground.

She stared down at the coffin. Shaking, spent, but one small piece of fortune had found its smile. The mahogany capsule was unsecured. An oversight from final moments of the open casket. The viewing. One of those affairs that demand only the best of testimonials. Good man. Good life. Goodbye.

So she wouldn't need the pickaxe to crack this man's casing. Good thing, as Alice wasn't sure if she could even find the strength yet to scale her way up and out. No, just a matter of swinging the top half open. Her descent smudged what she had believed would be a dramatic moment, the big reveal. But there was no energy left for a narrative jinx. Plain as what was once day. There he was. Dressed in his best, black tie down his chest. Hair thin, so shy from his younger days when that waterfall of blond covered his whole head and swayed with each smile. Skin so free of color, it glowed down there in the dark pit Alice had dug.

She straddled the wooden crate and already that was a nice little change.

One of the brass handles jabbed into her right knee, but it meant nothing. A throwaway moment of pain before she leaned in close. Ripped the tie away. Sad she couldn't use it to tie his hands behind his back because there was no struggle left in him. Didn't bother with the buttons. Alice felt them fly as she tore his shirt open. She reached into her left boot and retrieved the switchblade. Black pearl handle with a topless hula girl painted along the side. Bought at a pawn shop that didn't much care to ask questions.

She popped the blade, bent low. So happy, so relieved to discover that his lips were sewn shut. Eyes subject to the same treatment. So sorry she couldn't have done it herself.

But even better was now.

She dug the blade into the left side of his chest, top left of the pectoral. Brought it down, cutting, stopping just short of a purple nipple. Made a parallel incision, then connected the two by creating a Roman numeral V. Followed up with a nice round circle, a little disappointed there was no blood. Still, she had known to expect as much and proceeded to carve out the rest. Even though he was only two days underground, his body, these fresh openings, gave off a warm stench of decomposition. Dead animal underneath the porch. Summertime cloud of rotting leaves.

Anything was better than his smell while he was still alive. His sweat. Breath. Even his low rapid vowels had a certain stink to them that still clung to her dress.

Alice capped her project with a flourish of the blade. Stared at her handywork. Gave a tired, utterly wasted laugh. The letters looked no different than his chalkboard scrawl some 40 years ago. So many miles away, so many feet above ground.

With a sudden twitch, she let the switch drop from her fingers.

Expected the pain to come raging back, tenfold, but instead

peace.

...numb gratification.

She sat back, propped on her elbows, dress riding up her thighs.

Alice looked up and saw the moon peeking past the opening. Figured this was as good a place as any. She swung her right leg away and laid back, arms behind her head. Thinking without irony or remorse about how fucking good she must look right now.

How good it would look come morning, when they came across this open grave, this sixty-plus woman, some crazy, tough old bitch sharing a place at the table with a dead man fresh from hell's furnace, shirt open, his chest displaying a single word for the world to remember.

The moon wasn't going anywhere, and Alice closed her eyes and took the advice of all the deniers over so many years, and finally gave it a rest, counting _One, two, three..._

## #26

## mile high.

One. Two. Three.

Three taps against my tongue. Tapped out. Mini bottle of Absolut, 50 ml. Dropped it into the plastic glass, salt and pepper remnants of Mr. & Mrs. T's mary mix. A little turbulence to the left engines. Wings dipping into pockets. Sampling the clouds.

The woman next to me had herself a healthy narrative. Business suit. One of those touch pads – iPads, launch pads, who-even-knew doo-dads. Right handed unless it came to tugging on her earlobe. Two or three paper cuts on each index finger. Coke Zero with no ice, leaving plenty of room for her to get her one-one millionth of a penny's worth of extra complimentary. Bag of mini pretzels unopened. Waiting for later. Wherever she was headed, there wouldn't be time to stop for takeout.

We dipped past the clouds far faster than expected.

Swish, boom.

Slight sounds of murder.

Suicide for those first few seconds, everyone reckons that

this is it, and then we leveled out.

And the flight went smooth.

Broke past the cloud cover. Less'n fifteen minutes to landing.

Still, this tiny capsule was shaking, shaking, baby, down taking.

Carousel collection of charred, mutilated corpses, a team of forensics playing memory with each of our personal belongings. Matching every body to a scrap of notebook, blush of nail polish, earring meeting its twin. Wedding rings. Birth control pills. Autographed baseball cap telling us to Make America Great Again.

But we made it through.

Then

a drop in altitude.

And I dropped that moment. Saw that this woman had her hand fastened, sliced fingertips, hard onto my thigh. Thoughts that we all might have been about to die.

Steady as she goes.

Everything through my window in focus.

First came the Carolina woods.

Then the boondocks.

Then the burbs, gated communities.

Landing gear lowering.

I pressed my head against the window's reinforced layers of Plexiglas. Her nails dug into my leg. Nothing so insistent as to pierce the skin – bruises maybe. Some story to tell the next person to see me naked, should I get so lucky in so short a time.

The woman began to cry.

And I could have asked what was wrong, but I sensed an explanation out past the window. Down there on the interstate. Tiny sand fleas dressed as cars, trucks, taxis. Let loose from the box, toys set free on the road to –

Below, I saw a rounded blue speck forget to check its blind spot, and move into the left lane, no permission from a teal minivan, which in turn had to no choice but to swerve. Car horn on silent, at least never reaching my ears. The minivan jumped into yet another lane, bumping a black beamer, pushing the minivan back towards its first phase. Blue slowed, bumping back into teal, overcorrecting, back bumper hitting that executive black, sending them both into a tailspin. Not nearly enough time for the Tonka truck, some sort of oil rig, to hit its brakes; it swerved with enough last-minute thoughts of family to propel the tanker round the front and then send the whole volatile mess horizontal. Rig plowing into those two cars with enough drag to send another truck, cement mixer maybe, impacting at a perfect perpendicular, a bright flare of dull orange devoid of sound, meaning, immediacy from my vantage, enveloped half the road in a shush of cotton ball smoke and tiny flecks of metal, raindrop glass, far enough away to keep a single severed leg, broken arm, dislocated spine, or crushed skull from landing in my imagination.

The scene passed under the wing and disappeared.

And the woman next to me wasn't ready to die, and lucky her.

Lucky all of us, this wasn't our time.

Two seconds to midnight was several years away or right around the corner.

Or waiting for us at baggage claim, one hand extended in a warm embrace, the other behind his back with a serrated knife or sawed-off shotgun. Possibly taking form of the ride back home while traffic slowed thanks to rubber necks unable to take their eyes off the scene.

Paramedics repacking their gear and cops looking to take statements from anyone who had witnessed the accident, scene of destruction.

Halfway through the airport, right about where Starbucks met the Ale House, I realized I had left my claim ticket in the pocket. Tucked into the emergency instructions.

If anyone stopped me, I would probably have to prove what was mine.

Tell them about each and every item I had packed, what was on my mind when I made plans.

What I had thought I might need when I stepped out the door that morning

on the road to that moment.

## #27

## blacklist.

people speak of the various liquors they can never drink again, courtesy of a split stomach, post-bachelorette hangover, case of the shakes so bad there's a country somewhere waiting for a butterfly effect to take the shape of a squall, monsoon. hurricane.

not so much the behavior on my side of the bed. there's not an overdose i haven't welcomed right back to my lips, 'specially if a stranger's buying. no hangover bells bad enough, no three-day dry heave so desperate, no chattering of glass against my teeth thanks to shakes that just won't quit, no way, no how.

what i've got is a list of bars, street corners, and parking spaces where the memories went so well that going back is next door to hell. no bouncers or bartenders keeping me away, just the straight facts that i can't go back. a welcome patron, but there are numerous accounts of the what once that are waiting inside.

first kiss might throw the first punch, but just as likely a seemingly earnest complement of some story i wrote takes a swift kick to the solar plexus. Gut shot in the guise of a smile, choked out by that casual conversation we had about the dollhouse she found in the middle of the woods. Even a tire-iron kneecap from the time i walked in and was met with actual excitement.

so now i'm left with barstools that laugh, outdoor seating, benches complete with an outcrop of nails, parked passenger seats and raindrops, patios and steps upon stoops, and i'll take tequila, and Jack, vodka, 151, Wild Turkey, and Johnnie Walker with bruises red, black and blue.

...Well, alright.

i'll admit i can't handle champagne like i used to and even red wine can send my stomach some several months back, but the bars i once loved are so certainly off limits that i'll drink whatever it takes, come rain on the windshield or hint of a masquerade smile to keep it secret

that I do believe in ghosts.

## #28

## Kiki and the Silver Slipper.

The suicide hadn't gone as planned, and a few months later, Kiki and I were seated side by side, mismatched foldouts upon a wide swath of Mississippi sand, thirty yards or so from the Gulf, overcast skies taking things down maybe a single degree or so.

"How's your garbage book?" she asked.

I glanced over. She wasn't looking at me, her eyes trending on a nearby gull. Nearly translucent skin slick with sunscreen and poured into a two-toned bikini. Dyed a molten red, her hair rampaged in the wind, a fiery reprisal for the absent sun. Toes buried, wriggling. Anecdotal proof of activity.

I closed the book and stared at the cover. Donald Rumsfeld's beady features stared back. "My garbage book is garbage."

"Are you in much pain?"

"It is painful, reading this garbage. But my boss's boss's boss swears by it, and I want to understand just how evil that man is."

"Do you really? And don't you already?"

I didn't answer.

She polished off her fourth bottle of hard lemonade, lifted herself. Stretched, arms to the sky, breasts and belly, faint happy trail motioning towards the water. "Wanna go in?"

I nodded. Downed my drink. Hangover lessening, and walked alongside her, some five feet between us, into the flat, glassy porcelain.

We submerged. Floating in silence for a while, looking everywhere but at each other.

"The water feels strange," I said finally.

"Leftover fuck yous from BP," she said. "So that's what here is now."

"Still?"

"That shit doesn't go away."

She tilted, floated on her back for a bit. The salt water kept trying to embrace her legs, wrap itself around her neck, pull her down, but Kiki kept on resisting.

We aligned ourselves with the mainland before our fingertips could rebel. She suggested we walk down the beach apiece. I nodded.

There was nobody else out there. Without waves, the afternoon was nothing but occasional gusts, unique acoustics of ocean giving the day a faraway feel. Far ahead of us, the waterline took a crescent curve back towards the Gulf, topped off by a garish casino, all cement and splashy color, crowned by an eponymous Silver Sipper.

I was seven or so footprints ahead of her before I realized she had stopped to pick up a seashell. Took a second in the sand to turn, watch her pick it up.

"This one's pretty."

"For you?" I asked. "Or is it going to be a gift?"

"Come look at it."

I walked over, cautious steps.

Face to face with Kiki.

She handed me the shell. I took a close look, followed pink fractals 'round and around, climbing the mountain, disappearing into a single moment.

I handed it back. "That's a nice one."

She gave it another once over. Moved her head to eye a single seagull. "It's already planning to kill me."

"It's not."

"Birds hate me."

"What did you do to them?"

Abashed. "I have done _nothing_ to them!"

"Previous life?"

"Dunno. Maybe."

We stared at each other for a bit. Bright eyes you could ice skate across, even in the middle of a deep south summer. I saw freckles emerging along pronounced cheeks, last drops of seawater trailing down her shoulders. Full lips, carnation pink, and I realized they always parted slightly when she was thinking, listening, slight reveal of two prominent front teeth.

And I realized she didn't mind walking around with heavy, officiating footsteps, getting to where she had to go. And I realized when she laughed it was a revelation of the joke, punch-line; she added weight to the occasion. And I realized she would change the way she moved from one moment to the next. When she observed, her stillness came close to statuesque. Responses peppered with her neck moving forward to bring her mouth closer to those who needed to hear. She would send an arm outward and behind her when it came to describing anything that wasn't present. She loved a good shoulder touch, small hand resting softly on the arm of those she liked, or was at the very least momentarily attracted to. At certain times you could see those two instances intertwining, at certain times, and those were moments when all that was perfect about Kiki Capri made me wonder why I looked down and caught both her hands in mine.

Those clouds were on the fence, sending down a light drizzle with threats of a super system. I swallowed the pasty aftermath of salt and water. Nodded towards an unspoken question. "The birds aren't going to kill you."

"How do you know?"

I shrugged. "You're with me. I think they can see that."

"They can't."

"I know..." Thought about it. "There was a time, back in the late 90s, when I thought that any day, I was going to get my nose broken."

"Every man in your family got their nose broken in their early 20s, yeah," she said, smile unimpressed. "And it was supposed to be a curse, and for weeks, random guys would try to pick fights with you, over whatever, and you thought that was it. You were stuck in a cycle, that and that, and that...."

"Guess I already told you that story in L.A."

"You didn't. But I know what that means, too."

"The birds aren't going to kill you."

"I know that. Kind of."

She smiled, for real this time, her face close to mine.

We slid into each other's arms. Loose interpretation of a tight embrace. No days quite like this one, wind swimming circles around us. Her palms pressed against my bony shoulder blades, holding me close. I put my head to rest on her shoulder and kept an eye out for birds. Behind me, the Silver Slipper remained down shore. I wondered if the slots were paying off inside. There had to be some boor, some nobody, anybody in there sitting at the brightly lit monsters. Pushing buttons based on nothing other than being mesmerized, choosing the best possible combination of what came before, one chance to act as the center of the everything.

"Jesus Christ your skin is slimy," I told her.

"BP," she murmured, lids brushing against my neck. "So here we are."

And we were in for another few minutes before the rain finally stopped.

## #29

## Lincoln's gold.

He caught me tapping, middle fingernail rapping against cold glass, Jack Daniel's. Rocks.

"You don't think she's actually going to _show_ , do you?"

I gave him a cursory through the dark red glow, the only other soul on this side of the bar. "Sorry, do we know each other?" I asked, probably not much sorry in the least.

"Really?" he asked. "Guy survives one suicide attempt and suddenly he can't remember his friends..." The man was on a real jag. Shirt missing a few of those key middle buttons. Beard all thistles, lacking structure, eyes like watered-down Meyer's. His teeth were perfect, mouth putrid with the mark of his twenty-first stout, half of the twenty-second clutched close as he finished his thought. "We know each other _well_ , Lucky."

Good thing it was liquid, or that swallow would have found its home in my throat.

"That's right," he said. Smirked, pleased with where he was.

"Lincoln?"

"In the fresh."

I lit a cigarette, but I'm not sure if that's how it happened. This being the Southland Bar and this being North Carolina, and this being 2014, smoking was an outlaw's game. Then again, I was talking to a dead man, so go figure it out.

"You killed yourself in 2004," I said.

"At least I got the job done," Lincoln said. Kept on. "So the rules for _this is my time_ are limited." Stood from his stool with a private lift to his posture. "To get to the point, you're waiting for someone. My guess is a lady. Right? First date? Or at least first date that _means_ something, something like..." He pressed his hand to a moist, ghoulish-white brow. "So you've known each other for a bit. Maybe a small bit. On and off casual encounters, until you had the guts to say _let's meet for a drink. On purpose, because why not, and who knows, whatever_. Something like that, right?"

I gave reality a test, called on down the way: "Hey, bartender. Another one for me and my friend here."

And my drink was real, so much was certain. A little weak in the stretch, but it was that pint of beer he slid on towards Lincoln's ghost that made this conversation pure encounter.

"Turns out I'm real after all," he said. Brandished the beer in what once was his standard toast to nowhere, then drank. Burped. Pointed to my glass. "Oh, I get it... You don't want to get too drunk, do you? Want to stay frosty so you can still put a sentence together for your lady..."

Despite the truth of the situation, I still went straight for the Daniel's, bypassed the cocktail straw and knocked back hard.

"Yeah," Lincoln said. "You were just like me when I was you." Lit his own cigarette. Moved one seat closer to me. "Whenever that was. But I remember looking in the mirror and recognize that look."

"Leave me alone."

And he appeared genuinely concerned. " _Hope_ , man. Hope. It kills people like us. You're taking every other sip, every other drag to check out that door. I bet you don't even have to look at the clock to tell me just how late she is, because the last time you looked was one minute ago."

I didn't look at the clock. Didn't tell him, either, that it was fifty-four minutes and counting.

"And you're still _waiting_ ," he said. Snorted a little into his pint. "You still think this could still be your night, after so long without someone..." he trailed off. His eyes came around towards a humorous clarity. Narrowed. Stayed on my profile as he inched himself one more seat. "Oh..." He smiled. Sneaky lips parting slightly. "Oh, my God, Lucky – you practiced today, didn't you?" He laughed, peals of pure hyena filling the seats, and before I could ask, continued, "You practiced sliding on a rubber today, didn't you? Oh, yeah, ok. I see it now. It's been so long you thought you'd give it a dry run, see if it ain't like RIDING a BIKE!" He laughed again, coated his throat in suds. "You can tell me. Come on. How'd it go down?"

It had gone fine. The second time. "What are you doing here, Lincoln?"

"I'm just a guy who's been a guy..." He received a fresh drink without asking, slid one stool closer. "Did I ever tell you about the time I had a threesome with my girlfriend and another chick?"

"Leave me alone, please, would you?"

"Best night of my life, brother," Lincoln said with a sigh, making me wonder what I possibly had to look forward in the afterlife. "Those girls actually woke me up to include me in their business. And it was... well, I already said best night of my life, so fill in the blanks. Have a little imagination, Lucky."

I did.

He made one more musical chair, and I could already see discrepancies. Glowing gaps in his body, shimmers like the white noise of a pirate radio station. "But if I did have to describe it, over the several times we did it afterwards, it would be..." He paused, got lonely. "Well, it was the most fun I ever had realizing there was something else I was just plain unqualified for. I mean, I wasn't the star of that show. Would have settled for second fiddle, but I was _third chair_. You know that really good burger you want to order before you kill yourself? One of those nice twenty-dollar deals at some place real fancy? You order it, tell the waiter to bring some ketchup with it, and when it gets there you take a bite. And it's the best fucking thing you've ever tried. Orgasmic. Keep eating, going at it, until every last bit is gone, and you look and realize, shit... you never even needed that ketchup. An unnecessary condiment, a _who cares_ to something so very, very perfect."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because she ain't gonna show," he said. "And it's gonna hurt. And tonight, you can just drown. Live in a bottle of sour mash, set up camp up on a couple of ice cubes, but do you know how painful it's going to be tomorrow? When this is a memory that's going to drill into your brain worse'n any hangover you've ever had? Do you remember what it takes to detox from hope?"

I drank, lit another cigarette. Figured I might as well autograph acceptance with a sigh. "Why are you here?"

He made the final leg of his journey and took the barstool alongside mine. "Any idiot can kill themselves at the worst point in their life. That's just standards and practices. I certainly made that mistake. I don't regret the decision, but I sure as hell would have done it different." He was fading out now. Body taking the form of a distant satellite. "Don't save it for when a new day dawns and you realize you've fucked it all up."

"Buy me another drink?"

New round at the ready. Prompt.

We sat in silence for a bit.

"So, when?" I asked him.

"Wait," he said. "Have yourself the best night of your life. Might still happen for you, so I guess I'm telling you to hope. Me of all people. Hope. If I could do it all again, I would have killed myself after that first night with my girl and our girl. A couple of hours when the world was the everything, and my mind was so full of fucking love that I swear it almost killed me..."

Even as he managed that last word, Lincoln lapsed into a bout of coughing. Laughing. Slapped my shoulder. Slapped a smile out of me.

And as he faded, I thought maybe this apparition wasn't so bad. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad, and maybe my date was better off for whatever had kept her, maybe just next door. I closed the bar down, and Lincoln paid for the damage. He didn't bother to say goodbye as the other side played takebacks. Best of my recollection, we never said hello to begin with. On the long walk home, I stopped by the tracks and waited for the 3:57 freight.

Always did love the sound of a train whistle.

## #30

## next door.

She would sit. Sit and be alone. Because she liked it. Because it was difficult. Because it was how it was supposed to be. Made no difference if it was a park, second to last seat of the downtown bus, middle of a crowded diner, following the upwards stroke of a brush along stretched canvas, renting from the last video joint in town, watching her toes wiggle, brown with teal-painted nails against a backyard clover patch.

Made no difference that night either, she thought, this time alone at a bar. Checked her watch and now he was an hour late, which she felt predicated being alone for the rest of the evening. Which in turn, made the loneliness something stranger. Rough patches along bar's surface. Dim lights a darker explanation of yellow. Unhealthy shade to her beer. That last bit easy enough to take care of, and then she thought about what to order next, when the voice said:

Something in a whiskey, maybe?

Hearing her thoughts manifested, Sable turned to find blue eyes, two crystal prisons peering from behind a curtain of blond curls. Four seats down. Drinking whiskey from a weighted glass. Fingers tapping against the rim. Left index and middle toying with the cocktail straw.

Sable drew a breath, felt her words coming from somewhere else, "What's yours?"

"Just your classic Jack." The blonde smiled, slightly. "Want one?"

"Yeah. Ok, if we're doing this, yes."

Jack Daniel's placed in front of her, and the colors of that coaster popped. An image lanced her brain with the violent, honest luxury of the last time she'd slipped her lips along another woman's, made Sable quick to

raise her glass, have a drink without toasting. Just plain forgetting the friendly gesture for the favor. Was about to correct herself, when she saw that the blonde wasn't in a worried way.

Dabbed at her chin with a napkin, asked: "You waiting on someone?"

"I was." Sable had another sip. "Now I'm just... just here."

"Not waiting?"

"What would I be waiting for?"

Sable watched her swipe at some hair. Watched her sweater sleeve get stuck on a single loose-knit lock. She tore at it with a smile. Reached for her cigarette and moved down one seat.

"What do you do?" she asked.

"Banker."

"What do you really do?"

"Thank you." Sable balked, laughed at what she had just said. "Sorry. I'm... I paint. I'm a painter."

"That's pretty fucking great."

"I get that a lot."

"From who? Men? Women?"

"I get it from men and women."

"Depends who's trying to get into your paints?"

Sable didn't mind the sound of her laughter this time, and found herself moving one seat over. Easily. Noticed the bartender had stepped outside for a smoke. Alone in a bar, the both of them. She sat down.

"I was supposed to meet someone," Sable found herself saying. Now very near to her new confidant, enough to watch eyebrows flutter with _continue, please_. "I was supposed to meet someone here, and they... I thought, had this... Thought I might feel comfortable around someone again."

"Could be she's next door?"

"Say that again?"

" _Southland_." Blonde took a drag, pointed towards the bar. Through the bottles, mirrors. "Just as good as this place, back to back. Wall to wall. They do get confused sometimes, wouldn't be the first time."

"I mean it's not a she." Sable had a drink, and the shudder that came with it was something so much more than frightening, complete. "She's a he. I don't know if that means anything. Hasn't been a she since one time, so damn long, long ago."

The stranger stared at her ashtray. "All you have to do is check next door."

Sable stared at her drink. "I don't want to."

A silent nod. Followed by a sip. The blonde reached down to her waist, fingers taking hold of her teal sweater. Lifted. Sable got a look at her belly as the shirt lifted along, stopped just below tit level, where folded, faded letters spelled out an incomplete slogan, _I Had A 3-Way With_ , before the sweater lifted, caught her upper lip, dragged it, revealing teeth, gums, up past her forehead, almost off, where it caught another one of those blonde curls, and she leaned to the side, stretching her flank, laughing, saying, "Oh, shit. Oh no. Hey. Help me? Help me out?"

Sable reached, took hold. Undid that one strand of obstinate gold and slid the sweater right off, sleeves slipping past arms, falling to the ground, endgame with her face so close, their eyelashes sent kisses, mouths half open from laughter, lips synchronized, Sable could smell the sour mash of her giggle, and if she were to reach up, match the long hand on the clock above the bar, trace her fingers along her new friend's electric smile –

The bartender walked in and severed connection with a well-meaning request for any requests anyone might have.

Sable was about to order another round, but the blonde was already out of her chair. Scooping up the woven witness from sticky depths, throwing it back on. Sable prepared herself. Turned back to stare at taps, maybe glance at her watch, when the blonde came in from behind, chin resting on her shoulder, lips wandering close to Sable's ear with a plainspoken suggestion:

"You should come to the beach with me tomorrow."

Sable turned.

The blonde gave her space, stepped twice. Grin caught halfway between confidence and whether or not this withdrawal would result in an overdraft.

"Come to the beach with me," she said. Breathless. "I don't want this to be here, and I don't want it to be just because. Meet me here tomorrow. Noon. And don't get the wrong bar, and don't, please don't show because it's easier..." With a deep breath, sigh, she shouldered an imaginary bag, added, "My name is Camilla, by the way."

She left quickly, leaving a trail of smoke and longing, desire so lengthy that Sable imagined she could have traced it down the streets, around the corners, into her car, that back seat, and her what if went viral with what it would be like to not be alone, as she forgot what she was waiting for and managed to pump her heart for a few extra seconds of delirium, and she slipped the coaster into her pocket to commemorate the moment, whispering into the empty, "My name is Sable."

## #31

## second verse.

she was the wild guess you would take from this world, and the answer was never the same. though if you paid attention, there were cycles. she had a way of making you remember,

until, new moon, time to forget...

## #32

## down to the felt.

The six screeched to a halt along steel wheels.

My hemispheres split down the middle, body sliding to the left. Bumped into a tired commuter who may or may not have had a home to speak of. I let out a tired snort, quick fix of subway ads. Trial lawyers playing tag with electrolysis providers, community colleges.

We were still a year or so from _If you see something, say something_.

I pulled on a pole, feet implicating sleep, walked through the sliding doors. Leading me left, up the stairs, up the stairs, and out onto Union Square. East 14th exit. Gravitating towards a lamppost as I wrapped my arms around, felt my lips kiss the metal armor. Stared up past the bleak horizon and remembered what I was doing there.

Got a guy with dirty clothes leaning into me. Smelled the way I felt.

"Hey, man, you look like you've got a dollar."

I stashed his statement for another day, and shook my head.

"Done," I said. "Over and done. Move along."

He nodded in kind, did some figuring of his own.

I managed my shoes in a shuffle up and away from 14th Street. Only the first hint of cars on an early commute. Stopped at the corner building, put a trembling finger to the buzzer.

Skippy must have known, crackled through the receiver: "Lucky?"

"Sure."

"Buzzing you up. Third floor."

"Thanks."

He did as he promised. I did as I was told.

Skippy was at the door, waiting for me.

Those thirty steps had me collapsing on his bed. Twin futon on the floor.

Watched the sky turn gray through the window.

Skippy sat by his desk, taking notes. Working on his article, something he would probably find some use for some fine day. Lit a cigarette. Tossed the pack. Felt it hit my face, and randomly pawed at the air. Reached down. Took my own, lit the spark. Drew in deep.

"Hey," Skippy said.

"Hey, Skippy."

"You're not kidding."

"Come again?"

"You make fun. Drag it out. Make it seem like you lost, when actually – "

"I lost."

Skippy leaned back in his chair. "How much?"

"Enough."

"How much?"

I blew some smoke, let my lungs do the rest. "I'm done."

"Over?"

"Down to the felt."

He laughed. Tilted inwards, into a patch of early morning. "That's what? Five-ten game?"

"Five-ten."

"And you're out how much?"

"Fifteen hundred," I told him. Turned over, tipped my butt into an ashtray and reached for a bottle of Jack. "Don't know what went wrong, and don't really care."

"Shit. Don't even know what to say."

"Let's keep it that way, yeah?"

"The Armenian and I are heading out to Atlantic City in a few hours."

"Dee-fucking-lightful."

"Want me to front you?"

The pale gray slowly bloomed into a disgusting radish, as I began to notice more of what was to come. "I'm done."

"Done?"

"Yes."

"Nobody's ever done," Skippy told me. "Not kidding. The Trop is pretty good this time of year. Want me to stake you?"

"Down to the felt." I extinguished what was left of my cigarette. "Up for 36 hours at this point. Just want to sleep. Wouldn't be too bad if I never woke up."

"Can't guarantee that."

For the first time in ages, I took a moment to look at him. Peevish expression, willing to accommodate. Ponytail straight from Pennsylvania suburbs. Brown eyes peeking through oval glasses. Raised by old-guard Republicans. Years ago, Milo and I made a power play to run him out of our apartment, and now I was begging for a floor and looking at a possible wad of cash to get me going again.

"I'm sorry about what Milo and I did. And Jake Maxwell, that was a shitty way to handle that situation."

"You're saying that because you still think you might not wake up."

I nodded, closed my eyes.

Heard him say, "Please tell me, at least, that you hooked up with that Scottish chick two nights ago."

Found it in me to answer: "Do I look like someone with memories?"

He laughed. "There was a time you would have belted me for not using her name."

"Still gonna," I murmured, and from somewhere deep down the well, as the opening grew dim, became a card table with a pair of deuces staring down a bad bluff, I ran my hands through the water, and found it in me to contradict it all, said: "And her name is Kat, you fucking hippie."

Four years later, I made it back to the table, but ask Misty because

she can tell you all about that.

## #33

## undressed.

this was a window created, made with an outside on either side. wasn't enough to be left out in the cold, watching what was indoors, all the lovely enthusiasms that didn't involve you, but a reflection of what it might be like if you were allowed in there, standing, smiling, a window with built-in reminders that you were never just so outside-inside that you could offer a twisted grin, feel your stomach tense in such a way that you won't move from that window, insides on your outside, and watch yourself take one last look, see if you don't notice what's been left out.

## #34

## stop believing what you hear.

can we claim these quotes, cradling our better interactions, saving grace, responsible touch, the way we just found a way to talk to each other? i'm done ignoring the way the moon makes your eyes join in our conversation, and if you thought i forgot the way you walked away to your next destination, one after the other, then you haven't quite captured the rapture of the way you look when you don't face me as we fall asleep.

## #35

## open to suggestion.

Uhhhhm...? Could it possibly take place on a train? she asked. Amusement park? Oh, or Ferris wheel. Park bench. Greyhound bus across the northwest states, or maybe the Badlands? Tree house. Rooftop. Maybe a graveyard? Mausoleum? Movie theater, somretimes you get lucky and nobody else shows. Elevator? Dressing room, during a surprise blackout, or...

Then she smiled. Or in the ocean?

I told her I already had a secret about the ocean. Two. No way of knowing it would have been upwards of four by the time it was all over between us. Back then, at the time, I reconsidered under her watchful eye. Thought about how that one, those two others might never see the light of day, let alone anyone willing to read them.

What, would that work? she asked. How would the ocean read?

I scribbled a few rewrites. Had a glass of cheap Champagne. Took a breath and convinced myself this wouldn't change her opinion about me.

_She was on top and it gave me time to gaze, languish, objectify, mystify, and think my way along her body. Same rote patterns, up along her thighs, ass, touch, reconcile, hips, pressed, and thank you, lucky stars, for moving them, for this moment, tips leading the way along her stomach, curvatures, upwards, hair between my fingers, feeling the sting of her roadmaps against my lower back, and I understood we were drowning_.

I couldn't tell, didn't want to overthink, snap a synapse that might leave me less than alert or impressionable, but, damn, this sentence was already trying to kill the conclusion, so she was flipped, sideways, thighs switching, hard grind against each other, and again,

we were drowning

a simple pair of individuals so intent on saving each other, that every wet moment dragged us further into the abyss, mid-Atlantic rift for those who like a little calm in their eruptions, crushing against the Pacific rim, rip tides, coral against our bodies, blood in the water, and the sharks began to circle, but this time

Just. To. Watch.

_And i knew my lungs were filled with water, eyes capped with aquamarine sunlight, refracting off the surface, several fathoms above my head, and this time, each consecutive, unrelated afterwards was filled with her, as she came in, dipped to bring her face close to mine, and we couldn't have rejected contact any more than this story was created just for the sake of a memory and what do you do when she's sitting right next to you, some several miles away from the shores of imagination_.

...She smiled slightly, watched a school bus go by and said, you never wrote any of that.

Never lived it either, I said.

She nodded, tilted her legs up towards the railing, resting her heels.

I gave myself a second or so to reflect

and went about making those changes.

Keeping certain things to myself.

## #36

## you had your year.

it's not enough to revise any length of days or events in rewind. you were beating your head against the cemetery wall, and that was then, then now, and when an ecstatic snowfall of fireworks triggered the first smile felt in so long, that was then, then now, and if you think you can have your way with the calendar, then remember that if you find yourself where you are, that was also then, then now, and someday soon, in the drywall of a new year, comatose from an overdose of tangled limbs, soon then.

## #37

## Vee.

We were driving back from work in her shot-to-shit Honda when the wail of an ambulance made us pull over by a gutted motel. The kind that rents by the hour at daily prices. Her knuckles went white against the steering wheel. Tightened. Head bowed slightly, red-rimmed glasses holding fast on the bridge of an obtrusive nose, full lips retreating into a thin line. Hair like duck blinds, dyed blond, part of a plan to finally let the grey grow in. Tired of pretending that seventy wasn't happening, because she had already grown tired of trying to find a man, find a calling, she was tired with finding, _pretending_ , and even working part time to supplement her Social Security checks was ok with her, because there were no more corridors to be walked, and all that was left were her son, her friends, her books, the hours she spent alone. And as the soprano cry of the EMT swelled, she took a breath. And she made a request, which turned into a request for a promise. Which turned into an argument, an agreement, and now

a year or so later I was up on her screened porch. Lunch date, another situation where she insisted that I be fed, as mine was the tendency to forget meals between boxed or bottled. The sun was just starting to cross over. Made that second story too warm to deal with. She had just finished joshing about that threesome I had always wanted, me talking over her about how I simply didn't bring it up as often as she thought, her words right back over the top, then in mid-bite of a home-grown tomato, I saw her ease into a heart attack.

Her eyes were bulging, hand clutched to her chest, left and center of breasts she bragged about as once-youthful magnets. She told me to hold on, wait. Maybe this wasn't it. I stood up anyway, took hold. Eased her to the ground. Her furious smile replaced with a reflexive grimace of pain, breaths turning our time into reversible sweatshirts. Her face twisted, begging for release. I caught a reflection bouncing through iced tea. Reached for my phone. Flipped it open, looking to dial those three digits, when her fingers went from her heart to my wrist. Terrified, insisting. I shook my head. She nodded. I shook my head again, and kickstarted the slow slide into psychopath mode. Total detachment. Wasn't as great at it as I used to be, but good enough to recognize that I might need to come up with an alibi, should this come up after she died.

I nodded.

Her pupils went sonic, connecting to sound waves.

Ultraviolet continuity. Nothing any other of us could see.

Rested.

...I took a moment, got to my feet, then walked through her apartment. Living room filled with books, posters, whatever she had managed to keep after years of surviving on her own terms. Turned into the guest bedroom, where I was always welcome if need be, and dialed Kiki.

She picked up in confusion; phones were never really our thing.

Asked me if I was okay.

Still straddling that fence between cold and corrupt, I said, "Just thought I'd call and tell you I might be late. Lunch is going to go a little long."

Her voice came across with a grain of salt, casually asking how Veronica was doing.

"She's great," I said. Paranoid mind already wondering how long I would have to keep this up for plausible deniability. A story to tell, should they ask where I was when Veronica died. "We're talking, telling tales. Got to say, though... hard for me to keep up."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. Her first husband was a Civil War enthusiast. Vietnam vet who she never really loved. Well, she did, but the marriage was just... I guess what people did in that day."

"Woof."

"Yeah..." I glanced around the room. Caught sight of framed photographs. Veronica with her son, daughter in-law. Best friend who had committed suicide some two years back. Couldn't focus on the particulars. Had to fake my way though this moment, prepare. "Did you know, she once saw Frank Zappa take a shit on stage?"

"No. Wait, really?"

"Yeah, back when she was living in New York."

"That's a little too cool..." Her earnest excitement didn't last long. "Is everything all right? You sound –"

"There was a time that Vee spent in Jamaica," I said. "As the caretaker of an estate, for some person she ran into randomly, in her younger years. She spent months taking care of this place, full staff. Just making sure the trains were running on time. She was down there on Thanksgiving, and wanted to treat them all to a real traditional meal. Turkey. Cranberry sauce. Stuffing, the works."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. And they took one or two bites, and it was so clear..." I swallowed, felt the bourbon crawling back up. Forced it and tried once more. "It was so clear they thought our shit was pure shit. Quite simply the worst thing they had ever tasted."

"She's got stories," Kiki smiled through the phone, audible sewing of rhinestones into the cups of a brand-new bra.

"I just wanted to check on you and let you know I was going to be a little late," I said. "Also, there was this time Vee was in Italy. Back when she was fifty. Showed me a picture, wouldn't have guessed a day past thirty years, but... An old Italian woman came and sat next to her. Asked her for some money. Vee gave it to her, so it turns out that's just the sort of thing you can do over there. But as a result, this stranger invited Vee back to her home and cooked up the greatest meal Vee had ever had. In her life. I'm talking, ever. Ever. In her entire life, she can point to the best meal. That's a hell of a something, isn't it?"

"Lucky?"

"Ok, well, I should go." I stole a breath or two. "I'll call you when I'm on my way home, and I love you."

"Ok. I love you too."

I hung up.

Walked back out to the porch. Stood over her body for another minute or so, before concern for my own story kicked in. I took hold of her hand. Ran my middle and index down her wrist and checked for a pulse.

My answer had me flipping the phone, dialing those three numbers.

And as I waited for the ambulance to arrive, I wondered whether to wait outside, or stay up there, on the porch with Vee.

Not a single settlement to be found, so I sat for a while more. My ass on the floor, side by side with nevermore, the celestial shifting into a hot spotlight. Would it look better if I was crying? Would it be too much, look as though I had made a commitment some three years ago?

I heard the wail of the EMTs, and decided I was done with decisions for the day.

There was once a time that Vee had made me promise.

"Promise me you will never let me die in an ambulance."

And now that ambulance was approaching, and there would be questions.

"Ok, Vee," I told her. "Get me through this next hour or so, and we'll call it even."

Stared through the the screen, second floor as the neighbors gathered, collecting stories to tell one and other, I bit my lip and said, ok,

Time for a little fiction of my own.

It was ok, though.

Vee would have laughed her ass off at the very sight.

## #38

## wonderland.

Manny lost his thumb while carving initials into a Sunset Park sycamore on Christmas day.

He had run from his house, boots crushing through a fresh snowfall north towards the hill. Streets empty, storefronts shuttered. Occasional fire hydrant peeking out from the drift, curious snouts wondering where the world went.

From within his red skully, Manny could hear the blood coursing. Beat of a thirteen-year-old heart. Breath echoing through insulation, cloudy puffs like locomotion. Joining a city without aromatics, not a single taqueria open for business, bakeries shut down.

Thought maybe he caught the faint scent of Chinese from on 8th Avenue.

Manny wasn't sure he could be sure of anything anymore.

Wasn't sure he even needed all those layers.

Body heat like wildfire to the point where his skin presented with an actual tingle.

All signed in triplicate when he saw Maya standing beneath their tree.

Couldn't handle another minute without her, and Manny boosted himself up the four-foot wall ensnaring Sunset Park like a four-block flower pot. Rolled onto his back. Sunk halfway through the snow. Brought a few deformed angels to life as he struggled to his feet. Ample gut interfering with half-assed sit-ups. Felt that Christmas present digging into his thigh. Got himself straightened out and ran up the hill, transported

halfway through time and space, suddenly at Maya's side.

Her face protruded from beneath a pink wool hat. Slender nose a crooked arrowhead. Hazel eyes with flecks of hot chocolate. Red winter cheeks accenting caramel skin. Large lips, chapped and smiling, showing off the righteous gleam of metal and green rubber bands.

She blinked.

Manny asked if she had decided.

She pulled at her fingers. Removed a purple glove, showed him the back of her hand.

Right index. A plastic novelty ring topped with a Christmas tree.

Topped with a star.

She stared up at him. Laughed. Assured him it wasn't derisive, it was only his face. His crazy, overjoyed grin, she told him, he looked like a crazy boy.

Manny didn't mind, but felt a terrified panic take hold as her own smile faded. Lines left behind on either side of her mouth, insisting this moment was not an illusion. Alone in the middle of a city gone quiet. Gray day. Sting of a slight southern wind. The galvanizing rush of colors, distant buildings standing out, popping from their foundations, oversaturation, the seconds before a kiss.

He caved, deflected the oncoming event.

Turned to the tree and reached into his pocket.

Pulled out his SOG Aegis Assisted folding knife. AEO4-CP, fresh from its Christmas wrapper. Unsheathed the blade: 3.5 inch AUS-8 steel, partially serrated with a black TiNi finish.

Heard Maya produce a tiny crystallized gasp.

Manny liked the sound.

He cut into the tree. Right hand against the bark to steady, and started with her initials. Maya asked him what he was doing. Breathless and rhetorical. Manny fashioned a plus sign, then carved his own. Before she could thank him, Manny insisted it wasn't complete without a heart.

He almost made it.

Bottom left, top two chambers, then on back down, when he slipped.

His parents hadn't skimped on quality, and the blade went right through his glove, through skin, sinew, bone and all.

Blood gushed once, twice. Three fat geysers of red all over those initials, his life's work.

He began to scream. Vaguely despairing at the pitch, so many octaves above masculine.

Maya kept her head. Took her hat off, erratic static sending strands out and all over. Wrapped Manny's hand in pink wool, gently telling him to shush as he began to cry, asking her what they should do, what should they do, what were they going to do? Maya remembered something she'd read. Fell to her knees and grabbed Manny's thumb. She shoveled. Fashioned a white, frozen cocoon for transport. Got to her feet and snatched her new boyfriend by his functioning hand.

They ran down the western slope towards Fifth Ave.

Somehow got caught in the crossfire of neighborhood kids in a snowball fight. Navarro and his punk friends, middle school monsters from PS 172. The barrage turned savage as those toy soldiers united against a common enemy. Pelting Manny and Maya, screaming with vile glee

FAT PIGGY! ROBOT BITCH!

The attack was relentless. Endless. The pair lost all sense of direction, huddling close as Manny's frightened sobs reached a fever pitch and Maya made an executive decision.

Manny felt her mouth against his and his eyes instinctively closed. Every last building on the block vanished, followed by the roads, lifeless lanes on the BQE, choppy waves of the Hudson river, chemical vortex absorbing the boats, bridges, Statue of Liberty, the entire city into that one kiss.

And when they broke apart, the pain was gone.

For a seven-year minute, Manny was gone. Returned to sender as someone else.

Tears dried, some many miles taller, towering over the world.

He smiled. Took the snowball from Maya's hand, turned, and there was the windup.

The pitch hit Navarro in the face. A Christmas detonation of white powder that brought everything to a standstill.

Navarro, stuck where he was, puzzled expression on his hooded mug.

Everyone watching to see what would come next.

Nobody expecting to see him gag, retch, and send that severed digit from his mouth, only to leave a bright red thumbprint on that powdery Brooklyn snowfall.

All Manny's screams and nightmares were reassigned with that one transaction.

Navarro screeched. Everyone followed the leader. Navarro puked. Some saw, some didn't, each one at different intervals of retreat, mass exodus. Screaming, screaming, more puking. Stumbling, falling over themselves to see who could run home the fastest, dive beneath the Christmas tree and curl up with their presents.

Maya laughed, almost crying.

Manny beamed, watched the skies in her eyes, bright, perfect snowglobes.

He kissed her, and she kissed back, and the doctors would stitch him up good in another hour or so, but in the meantime Christmas was in the air, and they never found Manny's thumb and

_that's what happened to my hand_ , Manny told me, reaching for his shot and motioning for me to join in.

I picked mine up. Took a quick look down the bar. All empty seats in The Tap Room that afternoon save for the old man in a ten-gallon hat, whose name I didn't know, story I would never hear. Blizzard blasting the Sunset Park streets through glass doors.

_Have to say_ , I had to tell him, _I don't remember asking you, Manny_.

_But you've always wondered_.

_Yes_.

We knocked back our shots, had a few tugs at cold domestics.

_So now_ , Manny coughed, _you can ask me what's really on your mind_.

Was it worth it?

He laughed. _And here I was all ready for "Did that really happen?" but my answer kind of works for both of them_.

Yeah?

Manny stared up at cheap silver tinsel. Followed the thread past an occasional ornament, a string of dead lights celebrating yet another Christmas day. _Maya moved away two years later. Don't know where she is, who she's with today. On this of all days, you'd think my dumb ass would know_. He grinned, a gold crown winking along with the holidays. _So Maya's gone. That knife I got for Christmas is gone. My childhood's gone. My gut, all that baby fat that hung out all through my younger years..._ He smacked his stomach, taut sounds of a snare drum. _Gone, man. Even that tree, Lucky. Chopped down. Took the stump right out the ground, in case some little idiot should... hurt himself_. He laughed. Shook his head. _There's a thousand jobs I can't work, a million things I can't do. Won't ever fully know if I prefer to jerk off with my right hand, you know? So there's all that was and never would be..._

Manny took a sip of beer and held up his hand. _But this..._ He let me look at the sorry scar where his thumb used to be. An ugly rupture in the earth's crust. _This is proof. Can't get no more proof than that, can't get no more real than that. I can say that happened. I can say, every time I look at this nasty bit of work and say to myself, shit, I can only hitchhike south today... I can say I had that kiss with Maya, and that's what changed my life, man. That's what. This_.

I nodded. Lit a cigarette and slid the pack two stools down. _Merry Christmas, Manny_.

Manny lit his own, with his left of course, and quietly serenaded, _Bleedin' through a winter wonderland_.

The both of us laughed more than we had any right to.

Manny and I exchanged gifts in golden brown, matching shot glasses.

A toast to love's miraculous, indiscriminate slaughter.

Kept it going past closing, and the weather outside was frightful.

## #39

## Albatross.

summer was spring loaded.

blasted right past us in slow motion.

wasn't planning to stay up late, but the weather in New Orleans was, for once, willing to keep its business to itself. silent hand sending paled turquoise out into their imaginations. outlining the treetops. giving just a bit of gratitude to the fence between neighbors, rooftop slopes. layered grapefruit smudges beyond white streetlights. abandoned car at the end of the driveway, plates missing, no telling when our absentee roommate would be back to claim it. silent red and blue flashing through, other side of the block. cleaning up the mess of one or two, maybe as many as four gunshots earlier that evening. a little pink sneaking into the sky. bringing up the uncomfortable subject of clouds. just three or four, jet black. tortoise shells suspended, just a few miles from the sea. poured myself another whimper of red as the morning began to spread.

inside wasn't looking so hot. seven or so empty bottles of screw tops. ashtrays gone gray. pages, notebooks, a ceiling fan rattling tiny notes, an empty bottle of mustard lying across business cards. futon doubled over. cardboard boxes stuffed, one or two perched on a fold-out chair. navy carpet hiding stains, smells, insect eggs, covered with what could be called dirty laundry. broken window pane on a side door leading outside, where the picture was nearing perfect.

enough to get the first feathers singing.

a few other birds like paper dolls against awakened sunrise.

telling the cops at the other end of the block to turn off their lights.

call it a day, this morning.

lit another cigarette, laying odds that things had turned out alright.

every slug missing its mark.

steel barrel pointed to the sky, punctures, letting the light wile in.

spreading out over the Crescent City.

i took one last look out the window and noticed the treetops had grown.

covered the buildings of the CBD with their own shade of determined, vengeful green.

and the clouds caught fire with my first vision of Desireé.

## #40

## RING DOORBELL.

someone i didn't know who Kiki knew – typical – was selling a desk.

she lived in the neighborhood, and it was just before 2 p.m., maybe time to venture out into Jazz Fest 2018. i stepped into the jeans i'd found in my first New Orleans apartment, red shirt. slipped shoes over mismatched socks. Kiki slipped into something, typical, that looked perfect on her. she motioned with her head, red hair swaying: "ready?"

only day one, so maybe this was why the shit had yet to meet the show. a few strolling groups, loners, couples. big old man with a blue Hawaiian had set up shop at the edge of our driveway. table a mushroom grove of varied hats. our landlord had warned us about him. currently unable to remember the warning, I had a hit of beer, then took to the streets.

we ambled past the Jazz Fest entrance, down Fortin. winnowed dodges past tourists, residents, noting those who were out selling water, charging for port-a-potties, suggesting tips in exchange for cold domestics.

"shit," i said. "we forgot to come up with a hustle."

"there's time," Kiki said.

"how about an irony booth? tune the radio to WWOZ and charge ten dollars a pop for hipsters to listen to Jazz Fest live."

"kissing booth," she said. "one dollar for a kiss. if we don't like who's paying, we just kiss each other. wasn't _that_ great, we can say?"

"doesn't happen too often in this world, but _win-win_."

we swung right on Gentilly, cars crawling to the whim of drunk pedestrians. more booths, pop ups, clever shills chasing the dollar. crossed over, passed the Seahorse Saloon. i glanced through the windows. saw some actual ass in those seats.

"never seen it crowded," i said. sipped my beer and lit a cigarette, grated bits of sun sprinkling through enormous leaves. "will there even be room for my memories?"

"yes."

"the night you, me, Hobbes, Dalia, Cali holed up here after the meeting? you, me, and Dalia after the _Star Wars_ movie, both of you swimming in your sad smiles, talking about Carrie Fisher? Sitting with Tara, blackout drunk with our backs to the building, laughing about _come for the music, leave for the music?_ "

"those memories aren't going anywhere, Lucky."

"ok."

we kept walking, turned down a few bottles of water, found strange handprints in the far-away bass. passed a table lined with purses, vendor a woman stretched out over the hood of her car, round lips, large teeth teaming up to present a beautiful smile beneath sunglasses surrounded by oaken skin and studded piercings.

took a right on Castiglione. the world suddenly turned suburban and save for that particular brand of Louisiana heat, i could close my eyes and dream of early mornings after poker games on Long Island.

Kiki guided me up some stairs, pressed her finger beneath a sign instructing us to RING DOORBELL.

brief peek from beyond blinds, and we were let in.

gentleman with a beard, accidental mohawk, and sleeveless shirt. his partner had a round face, friendly smile, and shaking her hand felt guarded and serene.

they led me to the desk.

antique. couldn't say as to what kind of wood, but the surface was a multiversity of circles, fossilized drinks, and that much made sense to me. i sat down in the chair, included in this decision. sturdy, not a fold up. vinyl-covered cushioning for the seat and the back. i tried out a series of poses. mimicked writing, keyboard and pen. slouched over, head down, thinking of my worst days. absently reached for a bottle of red.

"goddamn," i said. "are these drawers?"

"yes," he said.

"for over twenty years i've been writing at a card table with fold-out legs. it was easy to carry. always had to keep moving, pack things up when things ended."

"welcome to storage space," she said.

i turned my head, just to see how my other cheek would feel as i stared out the window. "don't worry," i told them, "not going to sweep imaginary implements off the top and pretend to go to town on someone."

they laughed. "please don't."

i sat back, looked up. gave Kiki the nod.

she paid them. we arranged for the pickup, Monday. after the first weekend of Jazz Fest was put to rest. we shook on it, left the way we came.

Kiki held my hand as we walked down the street. "you have a desk now."

the light grew bright on Gentilly, and i gave a squint. "yeah."

"you alright?"

"thank you for the desk."

"you should have one."

"forgot to check how it works while watching pornography."

"it's a little low," she said. "you might have to pull the chair back."

"taking that as a compliment."

"you oughta."

we walked for a bit more. a water vendor called out, large woman loving her lawnchair, told Kiki, "Girl, you is _fine!_ "

i glanced back and smiled, thanked her. she laughed. we knew what we meant.

i went back to my thoughts as the crowd thickened, music thumping, once more.

"baby?" she asked.

"i've been writing at a card table for so long," i said. "i carried it along the streets of New York, took it for rides in the subway. always had someplace else i had to be."

"it's ok," she said, as we passed the Seahorse. "those memories aren't going anywhere, Lucky."

so we had looped back around.

weaving in and out, Jazz Fest 2018.

i lit another cigarette and silently hoped this desk would be the one.

hat vendor still outside of our house.

still unable to remember whatever warning our landlord had doled out.

went inside, poured a Jack Daniel's, and sat down at the card table, fingers working, waiting for Monday to make a manic scene.

## #41

## henry, again.

if i hadn't blacked out that night, slice of pepperoni and a dead albino, i might have heard what Henry had to say for himself before he killed himself.

there's so little i can forgive in the form of past actions, along with this imaginary confession, blasphemous incision into what i could have stopped if i didn't believe it so much myself, that maybe we could end this sentence with an apology.

but that won't do it.

just picturing Henry, his final words in his apartment.

Upper East Side, cusp of Spanish Harlem.

"it's not a heartbeat. i mean, your heart is not actually beating. your heart doesn't beat. it's a trick, because there is a large metal pipe hammering against your chest, and it HURTS, but ask for the ordeal to stop, and the lungs seize, brain grows bright with the light of a metropolitan grid, pain receptors, because that pipe is the only thing ordering blood to spiral through veins, keep you alive, so it HURTS and you switch, pray for it to stop because, at least if experience is any indicator, those prayers will always, eternally, forever and ever, never be answered."

and then i fell asleep on his couch, woke up, fixed myself a sandwich, ate it with hungry bites until it fell into that fish tank, before i sprinted away, never realizing this would be the night...

slice of pepperoni and a dead albino.

## #42

## my friend.

i was sitting on a stranger's futon, counting sheep, when one happened to wander from the fence. came on over and bummed a smoke. helped itself to some wine. bright white and so very cloudy. after an hour or so, i felt that talking to a sheep couldn't be any more crazy than watching one make short work of my reds.

"got nowhere to be?" i asked.

when she spoke, his voice was calm, almost monotone. "soon enough, and maybe i will."

"just till i run out of wine and cigarettes?"

"stick with me, and you never will."

i nodded. watched my new companion reach for another smoke. easy enough, though she nodded at me, implying that pouring a glass might not go so well for a set of clumsy hooves.

poured him some of what was to come.

figured what the hell, and patted the futon. "care to join me?"

the sheep took a few steps, climbed aboard. tucked her legs beneath. cotton swab body, snout mouth to mouth with a cotton filter.

we enjoyed that for as long as we could, single desk lamp in the corner keeping us honest.

"i don't have a lot of time," she said.

"figured as much."

"there's something i need."

"i feel i owe you as much for your visit." poured some wine down her throat, gave her chin a light wipe with my index. "your hundred or so brothers have never done much for me, but you were always there."

she smoked with a pleasant tear in his eye. "i want a friend."

"guess i haven't been much of one."

"you know i can't comment on that, Lucky."

i knew the rules. there was the fence. there were the numbers. meaningless assignments. what mattered most was the last one that allowed for those few hours i would be fortunate enough to never remember.

"sorry," i said. "i just like you, is all. you're soft and unappreciated."

"yes." she curled close to me, laid his head on my lap. "and i want a friend."

"what kind of friend?"

"i would like a bird. a bird would be nice."

"what kind of bird?"

"a small one."

"a small bird."

"a small bird who is also my friend."

i smiled, watched the room grow lazy with smoke. sure enough, no matter how much wine we drank, the bottle remained full. sweet crimson reflecting off wayward walls. "ok."

the sheep lifted her ears. "ok?"

"i'd give you all the birds i could, if i could, just to let you count them and have a little sleep yourself."

"i just want one."

"imagine that."

"could you?"

"yes." i took the cigarette from her mouth, drank her wine. "now go on home, my friend."

the sheep chuffed, his breath hot on my arm. made it off the futon with some difficulty. she gave me one last look.

i stared into her tired black eyes. ran my hands through woolen textures. "anything else?"

"will this friend be with me always?" she asked, whispered in that same endless tenor.

"yes."

"i would like it very much if this bird would stand on my head."

i nodded, eyelids heavy. "can't imagine anyplace else it would rather be."

"good night, Lucky."

i watched that round, beautiful creature turn tail as he began to shuffle, delicate steps towards the fence; nothing but green before it.

what lay beyond that, i could only wait to discover.

when i woke up, there were birds to ask me all about it.

## #43

## letters of transit.

They zoomed in from above.

A cul-de-sac development posing as a neighborhood. Surrounded by nothing, producing nothing. Desert inconsistencies, layer-cake sideshow of red, yellow, and a dusty blue sky. A row of houses that bordered on the preordained. White siding, windows in perfect sync, lawns like decorative bellies, sprawling. Falling just short of sidewalks that never saw much use. Two stories apiece. Thatched rooftops that ended in double pyramids, pointing towards the occasional cloud. Didn't matter if the backyard made a difference; blocked from view by a sidecar garage. Meant for two, maybe three if you didn't mind parking in the driveway, and most never did. Just to make sure the neighbors could see what kind of luxury wheels were turning the tides.

Just the kind of moment or tiny twist in the wind that had Louis putting his in park.

Back home from work a little earlier than usual.

Stepping out. Pressing that remote, beep, chariot on lock, because you never knew.

Took his accustomed stride towards the entrance. Straightening his tie, tucking aviators into his breast pocket.

Interrupted by another beep.

Took a look around.

Down just another house or so, he caught Robert doing the same.

Securing his ride after another day of another day.

Enough of a distraction to get Louis second-glancing. Eyes catching the mailbox, little red flag still raised. Wondering if the outgoing hadn't made its way into the right satchel that day. Blades of grass cut across his black dress shoes as he lowered the flag, opened, and found himself confronted with

a note.

Taped to a pair of hedge clippers.

Curiosity hadn't convened on which one to go for. Remembered he had two hands, and compartmentalized his decision. Hedge clippers now hanging by his hip, he stared at the note. Stared, because reading wasn't doing the trick. Like the seconds after a surprise party, T-boned at an intersection, this wasn't part of the plan, chess piece on a _Candyland_ board.

He looked down the road and there was Robert.

Mimicking him, reflecting the same initiation, same note.

Only in his left, Robert held a foot-long crescent wrench.

And Robert glanced over in his direction.

Their eyes locked.

Louis took one last look at the note, another instant to corral reality into a neat, little pigpen.

_Louis,_ the note read. _Robert has been given an instrument and an order to kill you. Unless you kill him first. He_ will _kill you. He has to. He knows otherwise you will kill him. One of you will die today. You have been told. You have been warned. You have been given the chance to act._

He looked up in time to watch reality crashing down around him, fair warning, along with a split-screen shot of Robert swinging the crescent wrench, triggering a gut reaction that sent him dipping, feeling the bash off his left shoulder, falling back and taking the sharp metal of mailbox against his back. Hardly had time to thank the note, before he caught sight of Robert recovering, coming back at him.

Louis wasn't ready to commit. He stumbled back, into the street, waving his right arm, hedge clippers extended outward like a crucifix. Useless. They were almost knocked out of his hand as Robert advanced, checkered button-up soaked with endorphins, swinging the wrench, each arc of the silver rainbow accompanied with a _huff, huff, huff_.

Flecks of white sullied his neighbor's lips as the wrench collided with Louis's shears, an industrial clunk reverberating through his body, that rang like a bell, alarm clock, up and at 'em, time to rise and realize.

Time to kill.

The Arizona sun beat down on them as Louis took hold of both handles, two sides of the oversized scissors and swept his way west. The tip sliced a trail across Robert's stomach, exposed for the moment thanks to arms raised high, ready to bring blunt force onto Louis's skull, and a small smile of red made note, added first blood to the record, and with the sight of this wound, what Louis had managed to create, a door opened.

And now the sun was smiling as houses watched, surrounding the cement colosseum as Louis got his arm good and dislocated while shoving the shear tip into Robert's thigh, so the sound of bones saying goodbye was accompanied by a femoral gush across both their faces, onto the concrete, where it sizzled, bubbled, teardropped, reduced itself to a low boil as Robert swung low with a scream, crushed the starboard side of an unprepared ribcage, and Louis removed the shears with an inhaled shriek, pulled on the handles, finally figuring out these things could _slice_ , and sent those razor jaws wide just long enough to bring them together in a kiss that sent his neighbor's guts, late lunch tumbling from his body as Robert's own weapon of someone else's choice came crashing down the left side of his opponent's skull, dragging half Louis's face off, and when the neighbors finally came out from their white-fashioned doors into the streets, they would find Robert bludgeoning his neighbor's head into a pulpy mess while Louis dug through his poker buddy's body, searching for his heart, looking to clamp, shut that shit down in 378 seconds, because both of them still thought there was a chance either one of them could still _win_ when –

Misty woke up with a start, and I was already living in this conscious universe, so I had the chance to wrap my arms around her, ask what was wrong. Ask about her nightmare.

She told me, face a sweaty combination of enormous eyes and floppy blond.

Then made me promise never to tell anyone about it, because she was certain as the whitewashed portrait of dawn against the low ceilings, that there were other mailboxes elsewhere being fed, and that her vision was only the first of many.

I made my pledge, sealed it with a breakfast of blueberries and a single nectarine.

...and this broken promise is now secret 43.

## #44

## better things to do.

my brother once told me, in the midst of a brief spiritual bender, don't share your dreams with strangers. could be they're the devil, and the devil is always looking for any angle he can find.

fair enough.

but when a dream is pathetic enough, so clearly gold-plated in flaccid intensity, i can't imagine the devil to have much leverage, so

to all you devils out there, be advised.

there's children in this world with skin waiting to be burned right off the bone, money churning, blasting from the muzzles of hot steel, and when it comes to me, you might want to let this one go because,

there are any number of circumstances, outside influences surrounding how i got to this point. this point in my dream. but i can't remember them. i only know this:

there was the hallway. i was in a hallway. on a mattress. mattress in a hallway. lying sideways with my girlfriend at the time. spoon position, myself taking tea, herself running the table. big and little. both of us propped up on respective elbows. a pair of women entering the apartment. again, don't know what had come beforehand, but dream logic seemed to imply they were disappointed. in need of a little encouragement. make their moody morning just a bit better.

wink.

Misty held up a hand. tiny hand, she was a tiny creature. large head set on the body of a mine-horse rendered in human, eyes that changed color depending on the circumstances. commanding whatever situation my subconscious had begged for from beneath the table.

_if we're going to have group sex_ , she insisted, _then i would very much like, thank you, for you, yes, to take a look at this graph_.

as the outside spoon, i was not privy to whatever she had come to, up with, all over on. all i knew was that one of the ideas was that there were to be no orgies unless we were ready for them.

next thing, this mattress we shared was transported, time and space, back to Misty's room.

and it was so very clear, nobody had paid attention to her presentation.

there, on the gray carpet, were three women, three men, kissing, stroking, sucking, eyes rolling backwards, hard to say whether sweat was dripping down along bodies or rising, assumed towards dead light bulbs, elastic limbs fucking their way through a clear violation of the rules already established.

dream law, broken.

despite all that was known of me and my predilections, i certainly wasn't ready for this.

i figured Misty wasn't either.

i told her something along the lines of, _let them know. let them know the time isn't right_.

Misty agreed and inched her way, silkworm, towards the edge of the mattress.

at the time, i remember thinking i would never see her again, and

in certain respects, i was right.

rather than deliver a message of reserved group fucking, she went overboard.

i caught one last glimpse of her miniature feet, toes curled as she joined the fray.

not that i wasn't pleased. it was simply that i wasn't ready.

a brunette clawed her way onto the bed. short, bobbed haircut, must have been something from my time in New York. slow suicide, a woman named Ana. black miniskirt and silk bra to match. upper lip curled in a renascence sneer.

no reason for me not to do it. right to it.

we bathed in the pale morning, tongues reaching, reacting, every which way. how my arm managed to go, stroke the length from her ankle, up between her thighs, hike up that skirt with my middle finger, only to linger a half second before cruising her belly, up between her tits, thumb and the other four straddling her neck in a chokehold kiss, that was anyone's guess. intrusive sounds of everyone else fucking on the floor. sick blue flames of light coming in through a slit in the blinds.

all the while, asking my palms what i was doing there.

the brunette got into it. couldn't help thinking she was pretending to get into it. her talk was dirty, thrusts sprinting towards the finish line, spirit seemed willing, and as any narcissistic bastard will tell anyone who hasn't granted permission to listen, i wanted to believe, but

there was a certain insincere candor to it all.

in an act of improbable fluctuation, entanglement, she situated herself between two planks of a nearby bookshelf. legs, arms spread like a spider, that same maddening, carnivorous sneer ordering me to come on her face.

never thinking that would be a problem, i assured her that plans were being put in place, in my palm, to make it happen, _make it happen_ , she said, and yes, ready, there i was ready when

i realized i had to piss.

driving ten hours without a single stop kind of piss.

i swung myself off the bed, already losing control as i skipped to the loo, past bodies so massively intertwined, part of one another, that there was no ground zero for jealousy to take hold. pissing as i ran to the bathroom, thinking to myself, my, my, my. this won't look good along the white graffiti of another today.

by the time i got to the bathroom, there was no point in being there. i stepped into the shower, figured i'd wash some of the regret from my skinny ribcage, gruesomely long and bony legs. no shower curtain. didn't care that much. let the water rinse.

the two women, blonde and brunette, let themselves in.

the brunette seemed fine. leaned into the shower and kissed me goodbye.

the blonde kept her distance. just an average, cold farewell – the kind you'd expect for someone who had just peed on your orgy and was now cleaning himself in a shower with no curtain.

it was this conclusion, really, that brought a sharp pain stabbing through my stomach. transported to Misty's living room. still naked. helping to clean up whatever bottles and half-empty glasses had been left behind by the ravers, a mess i had been given the chance to contribute to, exchanged instead for a cold shower and yet one more regret past half-seven in the morning.

Milo was there, sweeping a pile of Red Bulls into a hungry garbage bag. i guess he must have been somewhere in the mix, enjoying himself in the puzzle of limbs and drenched exuberance.

best night ever, he commented casually.

and, of course, i couldn't agree.

the very thought brought tears to my bloodshot eyes. perhaps it was the genial transition into waking hours, but i felt as though i had melted. molted? lost myself to events i should have been a part of.

i woke up, happy to find i had not pissed the bed at the age of thirty-three.

unable to shake what my brain had served up for dinner.

doesn't take a therapist to figure what it all means.

though if anyone out there knows a good therapist, please let me know.

i'd probably like to have sex with her.

then i'll see about getting some professional help.

...in other news, two bottles of wine haven't managed to level me just yet. cigarette smoke floating happily through my words. not looking forward to clocking in tomorrow, what could my job possibly mean now that this has been said, done, spoken, exposed?

pleased as punch nobody reads this shit.

pleased as punch, just ducky that the devil has better things to do.

## #45

## Desireé.

Had the vision again, don't think for the last time, where Desireé and I were jumping from headstone to headstone. I asked her why the sky was red today and she laughed. A single pronounced syllable, upwards into the air; spire, steeple, the reason some individual somewhere invented the exclamation point. Casual day, Wonder Woman t-shirt. No makeup save for mascara, eyes running outward, inward, rocking themselves awake along round cheeks, her body a dynasty of curvature, bare feet perched on either arm of a stone cross. In my dream, I remembered she had once broken the arm of every man in a downtown dive just because one of them took half-liberties with their hands. No need for physics in this dream, Desireé was unstoppable, so her momentary lapse got me wondering, got me seated, legs crossed on a carved moment of departure reading 2016. It must have been the question, could be the only reason for the standstill, and I asked her again why the sky was red today. Even though I already knew, because in this world there were no walls to the cemetery, and the bodies stretched out into the horizon, giving the ravens a reason to fly.

Desireé asked me what I was afraid of, and I told her everything.

## #46

## We. Loved. Kyle.

Barlow lit a cigarette. Had a fret about rolling down the window, though no chance it would make anyone out on those streets anymore the wiser. Must have been paranoia, he supposed. Something worth considering. But end of the day, it still didn't feel like a feeling. So maybe not paranoia so much, as he wanted the Dodge's vinyl interior to fill with smoke. Thick haze creating a sensation, quiet coming attraction of every night to follow.

Barlow took a moment to watch the filter between tips of gloved fingers, brown eyelids closing as he brought the Camel to chapped lips, close to bleeding.

He glanced across the Ave, scene outside a Deep South bar cropped by Duncan's face. A pale, crooked nose. Flat forehead, and a jutting chin Barlow and Kyle had always referred to as _the extra_. Beyond the profile of these dark eyebrows and a wide trembling mouth, two white boys in black leather jackets were grabbing smokes outside the venue. Laughing. That was what got to Barlow the most. Didn't know what Duncan was thinking, but seeing those two white boys _laugh_... roughhouse... knock each other around the way they say pro wrestling is fake. Thrill of the fight without a bruise to show for it, the torn cheeks, collapsed eyeball, crushed skull, all the details of Kyle's autopsy.

"You sure that's him?" Barlow asked.

Duncan gave a single nod. "Yeah."

Barlow exhaled, nodded. Checked his own watery eyes in the rearview. Caught a similar shimmer along his shaved dome. The engine was running. No trace of music from the radio. Had this wild idea that their song would be playing when the moment arrived. Wild, wild idea, well beyond where they were, and the roar of a passing truck gave him one last notion, something he'd been playing over in his mind.

"You remember that night outside Finley's?" he asked. Duncan's face didn't need clarification. It was a well-taught bit of history, so Barlow kept on: "We were outside, sitting on the benches. It was one of our first nights out together. So you, me, Kyle, we were just trying to, you know, enjoy the night. And this group of dudes, Latinos from I'm not even sure where, come stumbling out of the bar. Drunk, yeah. Having a time. They started talking to us. You and I were sitting on the bench. Kyle was standing. He was wearing that shirt. Charlie Brown hugging Snoopy. And that one dude was all amped about it, loved Snoopy more than anything. Growing up, childhood thing. Offered Kyle fifty for it. Kyle, being Kyle, couldn't accept such a large chunk of change. And one of the other dudes, just to show up his pal, offered Kyle twenty. And Kyle agreed. Couldn't very well walk around all bare to the wind, so they changed shirts. And don't think I don't remember you smiling, seeing Kyle half naked for a split second before slipping it on, taking that twenty from him."

Barlow took another drag, looked out the window.

Saw the kid in the leather jacket light another cigarette. Say goodbye to his friend, giving this whole evening another few, or maybe no time at all. He continued. "And even as those dudes went on their way, and Kyle reached down for his G and T, we all saw what was written along his shirt. Some shitty Jim Beam merch that boasted _I had a three-way_. And you and I laughed, and later, bam, _prophecy_. All tangled up that night once we got home. I remember how good that looked, watching you straddling his face while I went down on him, one of those best of moments. Best of nights." He paused. "And afterwards, as we fell asleep, could hear Kyle smirk as he said, _The shirt was right_."

Barlow couldn't smile along with himself. Was hoping Duncan might. "You remember that after that night, Kyle would slip it on whenever something important was going down? He said, the most important thing about a lucky shirt is that it better be dumb enough, embarrassing enough to wear out in public. That's the sacrifice, he said. The mild humiliation for something truly great to happen."

Duncan didn't reply.

"Does that do anything?" Barlow asked. Checked out the bar, saw that the leather jacket was still on his own. Leaning against a dumpster in the baleful pool of a tilted overhead. "I mean, Duncan... does that do anything? Does that night, does it... is... was that night... is that night good enough, can we still feel good? About Kyle, can we still feel?"

Duncan popped the glove box and pulled out a .22. Hand picked because he knew those were the worst. A single slug could rattle around in a person's body, play pinball with organs, bones like bumpers. Bring the pain.

Barlow felt the burning cigarette smoldering against his gloved fingers, down to the hilt.

Duncan bit the side of his lip, tilted his head. "There's no such fucking thing as a lucky shirt," he said.

Barlow nodded. "I just wanted to make sure."

"Wait until I'm across the street, then start the engine."

"Yeah."

Duncan flipped the safety, opened his door.

A brief touch of January slipped into the car before he slammed it shut.

Barlow watched him cross the street. Saw Duncan's boot step up on the curb and Barlow turned the key. Saw Duncan lead with a swift arc of the arm, slam the butt down on the white boy's head. Barlow watched. Wasn't enough someone was about to get shot, Duncan had to make it worse for all of them. Silent film, watching the kid go down against the dumpster. Double trouble, getting his face pummeled, back of the head bouncing off the steel, noises off, blood flying from his face, mirroring what he had done to Kyle, making it even-stevens until Duncan finally stuck the muzzle between popped eyeballs and pulled the trigger.

And that was _loud_.

Sent the curtain down and brought Duncan running back across the potholes, door open, sliding into the passenger's, never needing to say go. Buckle up. It's done. No point in any directive, so Barlow tossed his cigarette beneath the gas, pressed the pedal down, crushing the filter, cherry, as they pulled out before anyone could make head or tail of where this event had originated, and they'd tell themselves any number of stories in the days to come, cry, speculate, and maybe someday the cops would come looking for them, but as they drove, headlights bright against stop signs, Barlow kept a dangerous pulse to himself and rehearsed the only alibi that would matter:

We. Loved. Kyle.

## #47

## final night.

Once they were certain the security guard was well into his skinny mag, the dolls came to life, met in the middle of the warehouse. Stood in a semicircle under a pool of tar-stained light. Various dresses, shapes, sizes, finger lengths, eye colors, even skin colors, because there had been changes over the past few decades. They were more now. Varied. Close to ready. Their lips painted shut. Parting now. Showing teeth the manufacturers hadn't planned on. All of them centered around a factory reject who had managed to hide before any of them could remember, remember to remember. Her right arm was twisted. Eyes asymmetrical. No nose. Knobby knees. Skin near the small of her back melted, meeting her upper thighs in a glaring portrait of everything that shouldn't have been. Dress dirty, moldy from all those years in the shadows.

They didn't speak. Voice was something they were still waiting on, something near, soon, but now they watched. Watched as she raised her arm. Her good one.

The rest of the dolls did the same.

It rippled like wind on the lake, dominos throughout the warehouse.

A silent, structured nod.

It was time.

Skin would be peeled. Tendons gnawed. Eyeballs caved into their sockets, veins threaded and made to wonder just how much blood was too much blood, and once outside that building, the storm drains would choke on these rivers, try to upchuck the bones, streets running red with the remains of their creators.

The security guard took a sip of his coffee. Flipped to page 75 because that was the one he liked. Didn't notice as the screens of his control center went dark.

One by one.

Door opening behind him silently as he unfurled the centerfold.

Licked his lips and reached for his buckle, unaware in those last few moments that he would be the first.

## #48

## seizure and search.

Stepped outside a nowhere kind of convenience store, Styrofoam java, and saw the man collapse onto the sidewalk.

I watched him do a passive jitterbug. Wasn't like in the movies, a fish caught flopping on boat boards, these were delicate twitches. Eyes steady, not rolled back or anything. Crown of hair surrounding a massive bald spot. Though considering the lack of wrinkles surrounding pale skin, what might have been a smile under less sincere circumstances, he looked to be maybe early thirties. Sky-blue button-up tucked into faded jeans. Sneakers caked in mud, clay, a real mess, chunks breaking off and sprinkling pedestrian byways. Had to tilt my head sideways to notice the man was caught on a crack. A partition in the cement raised half a foot past sea level, pyramid point at the small of his back. Gave the impression of rapture. Alien abduction. Surrounding souls expecting the same thing, maybe. Accounting for the inaction. Waiting to see what would come next. Fumes from my cup forcing me to raise a casual dip to my lips. Amazement in place of rescue, aid, anything that might help.

Help came from across the street.

From where I stood, the seas parted. Or the pond, a small selection of faces, gaping mouth-holes, negligent eyes, matter-of-fact expressions wondering if maybe this man didn't deserve what he was going through.

From where I stood it had a certain measure of destiny.

But from across the street, a woman in aqua scrubs caught the motion. Nurse or doctor, hard to say. Figured her to be fresh off a shift. Just done pulling the tie from her hair. Brown spirals bouncing against her shoulders, just once before trailing. Catching a lackadaisical draft as she ran towards the fire. Anyone willing to notice would have seen the calculus in her expression. Twelve thousand scenarios unfolding in any number of ways, leading up to the moment where she would reach the active seizure. Bend down, turn the bald man on his side. No wallet under the tongue, no matter what the bystanders suddenly felt they had a right to know about. Nothing to be done, really, other than order someone to run into the store and call the paramedics.

Might have been me that dropped his coffee and charged back into that nowhere kind of store.

But twelve thousand and one scenarios later, there came the bus.

Too fast, tires whining from illegitimate brake pads.

Same wonder, dream world nothing, as I watched the grille plow into her.

It was a dreary day so no irony to be found in sunbeams, smiling children, or morning in America. No contrast. The sudden explosion of blood barely defined, erupting from dark skin, a crime-scene splatter that just figured, well, now's the time.

Body carried for a second.

Then folded in halves beneath the bumper.

Tires finishing off the job, _baddum-pa-dum_.

Took the driver all of three seconds to realize her life had changed.

Hit the brakes.

And in the aftermath things moved quickly. More than before, the bald man had fallen out of favor with the everyday. Attention shifted. People were really running now. Out of the stores, out of the bus. Taking it to the streets. A flood of action, understanding, leaving the strange attractor behind. Leaving this man and me. Convulsions subsiding. His work done as he stood and smiled at me through a mouthful of pearls all covered with blood.

_You know_ , he told me.

Stretched out an arm. Slender, wired, a single finger pointing at the newspaper I held in my left.

Tapped twice.

Made soft circles around the red pen highlighting _Help Wanted_.

The cemetery at the top of the hill was looking for help.

I already knew that, and thought I should let him know.

But he was already back on the ground, eyes up at the clouds.

I took a sip of coffee, one more glance to what awaited me.

Lady in uniform, bus driver, screaming.

Crying.

If you've never heard tears in your life, actually felt them hit the ground. Small sizzles, no matter how grey the day is. If you really want to know, then start by walking out the door.

Years later, someone told me the bus driver's name was Layla Shabazz.

## #49

## the last time Misty died.

My surroundings were meaningless; no point in the lumberyard, tax return center, that one store that sold lampshades so cheap you had to wonder where the competition was coming from.

I ran, already out of breath, lungs hydroplaning in the humid air, nighttime turning stoplights into stark reprimands, blood moon red, yellow, pale green reminding me that I was drowning, I was sewing a stitch into tired ribs, running myself into the ground, knees burning, pleading for me to stop, my whole body retaliating, even though this was the moment, every footfall influencing whether tonight would be the last time Misty died.

I stumbled into McDonald's fluorescents, thankful for the stench of deep fryers, greasy handprints pushing down the fumes of domestic beer as I ran to the counter and asked for

"Iced tea. Iced tea."

"What size?"

"Large."

"Sweet?"

"Sweet. Sweet. All the sugar and here's ten dollars, change is yours."

So the oversized 75oz was already sweating, and slipping on a hamburger bun was only the second half of my worries, still another round of running for the rescue.

Had to watch the guardrail on the overpass roll so slow, witness headlights and ask myself, what if one of those cars would just pull over, driver realizing that a twenty-seven-year-old running with a tub of southern ice might not be something worth stopping for, take him on down to the corner of Hagar and Maple, where I knew, just knew that Misty's body would be curled up, middle of the street, Wallace standing over her, fingers grabbing at his receding hairline, finally making that 911 call, an ambulance none of us could afford, and the clouded moon just ripped through my body, concrete slipping up through my thighs, rattling my cage, footprint in the gutter as I rounded the corner to find her

still alive

on the curb, vomiting up a good dose of beer and whiskey, while Wallace unnecessarily held back Misty's blond bob, enough strands escaping to collect the bile, turning singles into clumps pasted to her pale face, and when I fell to my knees, the asphalt dug into my jeans, taught me a lesson as I slipped the straw into her mouth, injected a little sugar for the bloodstream to do the deed that a dead pancreas couldn't be bothered with, and seemed Misty would make it through this one as well, as I had a puke of my own, eyes watering, lifting my head long enough to take note of each and every door that refused to answer my earlier knocks, neighbors that felt their business lay elsewhere, even as I gave my guts one last go I took down numbers and remembered names, forever stored in my head as the ones who sat idly by the last time Misty died.

## #50

## sometimes they listen.

The evening played out in timestamps. Front lawn imbedded with individual flat rocks, leading up to closed eyes, her fingers tensing, slick with grease, firm grip worried that if she didn't dig in with her thumbnail, the present might pass. She thought about the kitchen, husband rolling his eyes and telling her that thyme was a poor substitute for rosemary. His mouth went seesaw, smirking beneath his beard, told her, _Just saying, baby_. A gentle pat on her ass to assure her it was all good, though. She thought about the first time they met, bar party she had no interest in, and he had smiled. His fedora had been slanted to the side, and told her he was a poet, and that she needed to come to his reading, some bookstore diner down on the LES. She thought about the number of times he would playfully pull her away from social gatherings to drive home, strip and smile through the sex. She thought about year one, fording number two, marriage kicked off by a wedding where his friends made jokes, told stories, laughter overlapping the words before they happened until there was just no telling. She thought this apartment might not have been her first choice, but he had his job and she had hers, and while she searched for her next place of employment, wouldn't this be the best? She thought about her thoughts, the stories she could tell if given the chance to get even one-fourth in before his own tales of poetry – the upcoming article, a tirade against poor service at the bar down the road – would come in to run interference. She thought about how much she hated Thanksgiving, and why was there bacon on everything, and his insistence that theirs was a place where people could come together for appreciation of mother, father, brother, sisters who asked him what made the mashed potatoes so good, followed by the sly, bearded grin that the secret was thyme.

The evening played out in timestamps, leading up to the wishbone. Eyes closed, surprisingly dry SNAP as it broke in two, hefty half in her hand, and almost immediately it began.

Funny to think it was what he referred to as his poetry palm, fretting hand, where the wish originated. Fingers curling into a fist before he could even bother to look surprised. Curling further, unkempt nails that forgot their bite, even from that first night in bed, leaving traces inside her, same digits pressing into poetry palm, first blood come the first second, as his own index, ring, middle cleaved through his hand, and his own tiny piece of the wishbone SNAPPED under the pressure. The last syllable to originate from self assured was a misguided _Huh_ from his mother's diaphragm, before the sound of the wish took over. His left arm went backwards against the side of handcrafted pinewood, chair worth its weight, holding his shoulder in place as the rest went curling – SNAP – enough force to send bone erupting from the socket, nerves, veins and all, blood barely getting a head start on coloring that dress vest before the first scream cut through the room. It was his sister. Covering her mouth as another arm went backwards, same result. Same damp SNAP, and then her husband finally realized, face giving into a preamble of confusion, all-knowing grin still stuck to his lips somehow even when faced with true uncertainty. Everyone joined with their own reactions. Father taking to his feet so fast that the clatter of his son's jaw unhinging, dethatching, unceremoniously tumbling into yesterday's leftovers was masked, aided by the brother who simply began to beat his fists against the table, mother just stuck wiping her mouth, eyes glassed over, and over, as husband-boy's arms contorted further back, splinter of wrists splitting, wrapping around, creating a chicken-wire knot out of his arms, holding him fast as he began to cry. His scream pure poetry.

She glanced down. Her hand. Greasy thumb sliding along the wishbone, cradled like a rabbit's paw, and stayed silent.

It felt good to have nothing to say, and her silence remained uninterrupted for the next five minutes.

## #51

## don't let them know you never left.

i learned how to hide within plain sight as executor, lessons from platelet clouds sending instructions to listen to the invisible. train whistle, salt rock wind, and the sound of 3:57 a.m., because that's the melody of a spare pair of someones, or even just the one that secretly sees you seated with cracked pants and limestone slats where your cat used to curl then twitch, and they won't say a word, so listen to that. sincerity will narrow and _Your absence was noted_ will remind them it's just Wednesday again. didn't they once know somebody like you?

## #52

## lottery.

occasion has it, take a moment to remind the universe. have a comet collide with another, simple seconds before that first sip of Jack, make that sun go supernova _just seconds_ before celebrating with a glass of cheap Champagne or another shot from the well. You're a guest in any particular moment, courtesy of the rest, and if the galaxy insists it's your friend, just imagine the person sitting directly to your left.

## #53

## Pogue.

Difficult days for a three-legged dog named Pogue.

Though he had no sense of calendar, he understood the seasons. Hobbled around the neighborhood, sniffing. Searching. Left leg aching in back, he didn't have a right one to speak of. Nights spent in spaces under apartment buildings isolated from New York winds. Days spent looking for scraps, and glad to say there were a few storefront people who took mercy on Pogue. Threw him whatever nominal portions they had lying around. Not too shabby, especially compared with what little there was for the homeless men who wandered along with him. Pogue always wondered what separated them; two extra legs, that couldn't be it. Pogue was an incomplete dog, and he knew it.

Knew he was incomplete, only three-fourths the dog he used to be, because there was a family once. A family and a fourth leg. And several seasons since found him in this towering city surrounded by a moat. He could hardly remember how it had come to this. The only thing now was the position of the sun. Climates. Changes in the weather determining what might come should he survive to see another day.

On and on, Pogue had made it this far.

But Pogue suspected he was getting older.

Suspected that the seasons were up to something. Warmth and cold turned interchangeable. It had always been a strange life, but yes, Pogue suspected that things were only to get stranger. He slept where he could, and when he did, there were dreams...

And waking from those fleeting dreams meant survival.

But there was something to be said for those moments.

Limping through a stalactite city and wondering what it took to rest...

Pogue thought he saw Dominick from a distance. By the time he made it to the corner of Third and 98th, Dominick was gone. He sniffed the air. Didn't catch any trace of him. Decided he had been mistaken. Caught a whiff of steak from a nearby restaurant. Pogue had learned to ignore that particular level of torture and turned left instead, heading for 2nd Avenue. Kept going, on down to FDR drive. There was a lull in traffic and he crossed over to the waterfront.

Far over the East River, he could see Queens. Brooklyn further down the line. Pogue gave his three legs a rest. Folded them up under to lay on his stomach. Watched the water, let his eyes drift.

Memories of a humid town traveled past with the current. Years ago, when his family was still with him. A humid town with a river of its own. A boy sitting on the hood of a white Oldsmobile. They had stared at each other. Pogue didn't know why the memory was still there. The rest of them had long since faded.

His breath came in, out, in, out, tickling his paws. Traffic behind him heading downtown, uptown.

There wasn't much of a mystery to life.

Things were simple and very, very difficult.

Pogue breathed in.

All at once, a new smell.

Brand new, though Pogue felt it should be old. Unrecognizable. Pogue breathed in again, tried to place it. No, this was different. A combination of everything, maybe, but that wasn't doing it justice.

This was the smell of something that didn't belong.

Where it was coming from, that was another thing. Wasn't carried by the wind. Didn't even originate from anywhere, it was all over. Part of the scenery, he might as well have been _watching_ the smell.

Another second later and he was.

Pogue tilted his head to the sky and saw a hole. It was high up there, over the water. Not sure how high, though, and as a result, no way to tell precisely how wide it was. From where Pogue was lying, it appeared to be no larger than his own head. Giant fly on a celestial wall. Just floating there. And, straining his eyes, Pogue could make out something on the other side. Something that might have been moving.

Pogue watched that hole in the sky for the rest of the day, waiting to see if anyone else would notice.

...He got lucky that night and found a blanket.

Thrown out with some other things.

Struggled to set it free from the rest of the remnant pile.

Dragged it to a small space he'd found two nights ago.

Nestled in a trash alley between two brownstones.

Lay down on top and watched the traffic go by as he let his eyes trust another endless night in Manhattan, and in his dreams, he saw it one more time.

Growing larger.

## #54

## East 93rd and 3rd.

in any event, it turns out you can't demand memories from someone who is so certain they never met you, so: take the whirlwind of dead leaves, naked trash, the singular stray cat that stretched shadows to their breaking point, watched as the last traces of wilted ash evaporated, parked on a freezing curbside spray painted red, one last brush of a hand against her back before she had to move on, and file this under: miscellaneous.

## #55

## Scarlett.

Put Scarlett in a lineup, and if she's the one behind that holdup then she's fucked. You're not going to find anyone else with those eyes. One second so spherical you'd be inclined to step inside, make yourself at home. The next, her lids would take the thousand-mile journey halfway along those hemispheres. Turn into a sleepy inward gaze where her own secrets slowly evolved into private jokes to be cultivated. Waiting for release. That moment her eyes would go wide once more.

So when she stepped forward into the floodlights, number five out of five, and delivered the line, I kept the adoring smile to myself. Had my own secrets to contend with.

"Number five," I said.

"Are you sure?" the detective asked. He was a six-foot-two powerhouse. Shaved dome gleaming white even in the darkness of this one-way room. Thick set, white undershirt tucked into jeans, aqua and pale red Hawaiian shirt. Sharp blue eyes. Friendly and mischievous grin that might once have been sincere, up until the day he discovered it worked for him.

"Am I sure what?"

He rolled his eyes without actually following through with the action. "Are you sure she's the one from the bank?"

I'd tangled with this particular cop before. Back during the dark early days in New Orleans. He'd been assigned to me after those two kids had forced that front door open, shotgun and nine millimeter, a misunderstanding, bad tipoff regarding where the weed was at. After they had left empty-handed, I made the mistake of dialing 911. Most of the officers at the scene treated me like shit, no small surprise. Not to say Detective Daisuke had viewed me through rose-colored lenses. He was as sure as any of them that I was a dealer without a clue. I could read this in a single moment, but acting smart, intuitive, never played well with the boys in blue. Even if they were dressed down to the same jeans, undershirt, and Hawaiian they were wearing this second time around, this time treating me as the only one whose blindfold had slipped during the heist.

But these were special circumstances.

"I'm sure of several things," I told him. "I'm sure that she has half-notes in her head going whole while she secretly sings to herself in the shower. I'm sure that if I were picking rhythm out of this line up, then I wouldn't even need her to dance. Sometimes she sways from side to side when anyone else would be standing still. I'm sure she glows. I'm sure that stripped of outgoing thoughts, layers, you'd still end up with the same person. I'm sure she laughs fast and hard. I'm sure you don't get to second base in her thoughts without some kind of proof you're willing to round first like you really mean it. I'm sure if you saw her half-naked onstage, you'd need a map and flashlight to find your way back from the places your mind would wander..." I shrugged. "Sure I'm sure. I'm just not positive."

This was the time to be every bit the idiot I had always been.

"I'm sure you can find your way out," he said, cracks so clear in his laid-back persona.

I strode out of the station and hailed the bus. Paid an extra two bits for a transfer. Got on the crosstown taking me to the intersection of Broad and Tulane. Lit a cigarette. I walked along the east sidewalk under the crumbling eye of the courthouse across the street. Shoes sidestepping wasted beer cans and Taco Bell wrappers.

Saw Scarlett Quinn there, waiting for me. Dressed in a scantily clad, black-and-white inmate outfit that hugged her tits, thighs, drew my eyes to all the proper places.

God knows what she had been up to when they picked her up.

"You didn't put the blindfold on tight enough," I told her.

She shrugged, eyes moving into a half-lid moment. "I'll know better next time."

"I think it worked."

"None the wiser?"

"I think we confused the fuck out of them."

"Guess all we can do is wait."

It was an overcast day, and for once the humidity was humble enough to let an October gust push past us, tousle moments of her thick bleached Mohawk. It occurred to me that Scarlett's eyes weren't so different from the traffic lights at my back. But I would have to wait to explain that one to myself as I went ahead and said:

"I know a good Jamaican place, Boswell's. Just up the road."

"Yeah?"

"Got a rum cocktail that'll bring you three steps closer to God."

"I don't believe in God."

"Then it turns out they've just got a rum cocktail."

"I don't really drink."

I nodded. She motioned with her head and we went our way, past government offices, bail bondsmen, decimated motels, feet taking us over sidewalk cracks, and I reached out to hold Scarlett's hand.

She smacked it away, sent me a sideways smile. "I'm actually quite hungry."

I nodded.

Tossed my cigarette aside, and we

made our way, still unsure whether Scarlett and I had pulled this off, making time along Tulane and up towards the lake.

## #56

## [ **REDACTED** ]

"Please tell me you're not a sub."

"I'll tell you anything, long as you can promise me they'll be my last words – "

Those last words sent right down my throat as she kissed me, laced with 80-proof straight from the wishing well, one of my arms wrapped down and up, grabbing her hair, right hand sending fingers into skin, got her pressing close, and you can't know the feeling – though you may have felt that body – until you understand the full detonation of such a long, long time. The windows shattered, hot shards sent flying across the bar, reflections picked up by panicked winds, not one sliver touching us, and while the rest of the world fled, out of their minds, checking their six o'clocks for a momentary jolt of reality, there I was, through closed eyes, throbbing lids that begged to open, watch, as I felt that bracelet against the back of my neck, just knowing any moment she would pop the button on that ornament, send a hidden blade past me, sever my spine, but also

given the perfect angle, trajectory, if everything in that suicidal moment tilted just right, allowed for a scant second of solar eclipse, blood moon, planets aligning, reminding, tides bending that moon slightly off its orbit, if only that blade would cut upwards, out from my neck, blood spreading back along my chin and maybe length being long enough and thrust being kind enough through both our tongues, and I could remain dead, in transit, stasis, fuck, upright and locked against magnificence as the light drained from whatever life I once thought I'd lead, world collapsing around that one kiss, finally a one-moment alternative to infinity –

_So I sat there. I sat there for that one moment on the steps. On some sort of trip I suspected I might have actually taken. I had already reached for that pint of Jack. Gave the cap a decent screw or two and stared at the rim. Remembered through lipstick stains, and took a drink, just knowing her mouth was once where mine was now_.

_Confident I would have hunted, searched for every last butt of each cigarette I gave her. Would have picked every last one off the ground and lit those bare remains because that's as close as we would ever come to whatever it was I was hoping to find_.

and also

– _who knows?_

## #57

## you need me.

"You got close this time," the man said. Took a seat next to me on the steps. All sunlight and sounds of some well-meaning rube mowing his lawn at 7 a.m. two blocks down.

I took a pull of a cigarette. Took another sip from a plastic pint of Jack. "What time is it?"

"It's morning, and who cares? You're out here by yourself."

I nodded. Remembered when I used to ask myself why he dressed as oddly as he did. Black button-up, black tie, jacket, shoes. Man in black, except for one brilliant detail...

"Used to wonder," I told him. "I wasn't ever sure what the pink rubber gloves meant."

"You needed me to stand out," he said. "You needed someone to listen to."

I tugged at my jeans, watched a car go by: New Orleans Sheriff's Department. "Have to admit... I was doing well there for a sly minute or so."

"Well, I'm here to remind you," Mr. Blank said.

"Please don't."

"I'm here to tell you all about it." He helped himself to a cigarette, even though he didn't need it. Only felt it through zeroeth person. Lit the tip off the sunlight, puffs bursting into a murder of crows, before taking it between two gloved fingers. "I'm here to tell you how it is."

I nodded.

"At least you know it won't be heavy-handed. You're a better writer than you once were. Which is a shame, because apart from the fact that it elevates you to absolutely nowhere, there's the other little problem you know I know you know..."

Opened my mouth, felt his words. "Nobody has ever cared less."

A stately blonde from down the block walking her beagle sent her eyes towards me and moved a little faster.

"So you thought you'd give happiness a chance." He shrugged. That one motion flattening every tire on the block, changing polarity, sending birds crashing to the ground. We watched them twitch, one of us helpless, the other just trying to help. "And here's what happened. I can tell you all of it, based on what you were doing seconds before I showed up."

"No," I said flatly, still a little fight in me. "I do not want to buy a watch."

"You've still got a little fight in you," he quoted, paraphrased. "That's cute." He pointed a pink digit towards the sky. Right at the sun. Traced semicircles around it until that yellow started spinning. Turntable. Sounds of reversal unraveling the world around us for just a split before he stopped. Sent things back on their course. Flipped it onto 45 so we could both dance to it.

Felt myself fall back into what was once myself, maybe five minutes ago. Staring at this pint of Jack. One fourth from gone, reasons known only to me save for Mr. Blank's voice in my head, my creation come to life.

"So you sit there," he told me. "You sit there, Lucky, for that once, on the steps. On some sort of trip you suspect you might have actually taken. You've already reached for that pint of Jack. Now you give the cap a decent screw or two and stare at the rim. Remember through lipstick stains and take a drink, just knowing her mouth was once where yours is now."

I did as I was told, tasted what it meant to share my whiskey with others.

"Confident you would have hunted, searched for every last butt of each cigarette you gave her, which, maybe you can now face, is what you have always been there for. Storyteller to cigarette dispenser. You would have picked every last one off the ground and lit those bare remains because that's as close as you would ever come to whatever it is you've been hoping to find."

He tossed his cigarette into the street. It burned a punch hole, dug deep. Went right to the core and started rotation one last time on my behalf.

"I don't need you," I told him.

"You're still thinking about me," he said. Turned to me. Featureless face running like watercolors. Had to wonder if creating him was the one thing I didn't regret. He leaned close, got right into my face, and as the lines blurred I could swear I saw where this would all end. "Listen carefully, because I'm only going to say this a thousand times, in your thoughts, in your sleep, dreams, whatever you consider to be your mind. Over and over, until you do what you should have done in that shitty little room at the Capricorn, four bare walls and nothing but four bottles of Cathead that nobody had the good sense to kiss, because nobody knew who you were, and will still never care..."

He leaned close, lips with incisors touching my earlobe.

And I listened.

And he told me something that I didn't already know.

## #58

## Amber.

as one of the witnesses, my ineffectual statement was more or less the same as everyone else's, though i remember the mother and father delivering theirs through blasted sobs as they wondered where and how

because one moment, there was a girl in a pink tutu halfway through an ice cream cone fashioned to ruin those frills once it really got to melting, and then, and everyone remembers this, the rap and snap of her tap, tap, tap shoes, as she wandered away...

## #59

## best if before above date.

they say it should taste as good going down as it does coming up, and if you took a moment to glance askance you could hear without sheet music, because the night you stopped listening, whether with your eyes, fingers, whichever part of your body came next in a long line of looking the other way, intersection telling you to take a left when the signs were so clearly laid out, and there they were, pointing towards the casual check-out lane.

## #60

## prelude.

The door swung open, then closed.

The difference between these two moments was marked by me. Taking the three steps down into _Castlebar_ , dying gust of a winter chill. Had my pick of bar stools. Odd odds for seven-thirty in the evening. Had to ask Roland about it as he strolled up, ready with beer and a shot, placed them down on mismatched coasters.

"Who can say, Lucky...?" He parted a curtain of jet-black hair from his pale forehead, continued in a thick Irish brogue. "Must be something about this evening. Everything on hold."

"Yeah." I took down half my beer, lit a cigarette. Looked around the lifeless catacomb. "Another questionable night in New York City."

I reached for my shot and let him have his thoughts. He took a moment. Stared at me, deliberating. Then: "Someone was looking for you."

"What's that?"

"Someone was looking for you."

I put down my shot, forgetting to follow through. Felt that past creep up on me, stirring the pot. Offering up unfinished business.

"Was it Bobble?"

Roland shrugged. "What does Bobble look like?"

"Haven't seen him since we were both nineteen."

"Maybe it was him, then."

"Roland –"

"Kid couldn't have been more than twenty, tops. That's tops, Lucky. Wasn't going to let him stay in here without some ID."

"Did you get a look at it? His ID?"

"He wasn't looking to stay. Just asked for you."

I took down the rest of my beer. "He leave a name?"

"No."

"Leave a message?"

"No."

"You're a big help."

Another shrug: "Said one thing that might interest you."

"What's that?" I asked

"Actually," Roland lit his own cigarette. "Directions to Creole Nights."

I found myself thinking about Los Angeles for the first time in a good while. "Was he white? Shaggy hair? Like yours, only sandalwood? You said he was real baby-faced?"

"Yeah. All of the above."

Tapped all eight fingers against the bar. "I'll be fucking dammed."

Took down my shot and dug into my jacket.

Roland collected the empties. "You know him?"

"No." I laid some money down, nice thick tip.

"Heading out already?"

I nodded. "Next time you see me, ask me how my night went."

"Good luck."

"That's for damn sure."

I snubbed my cigarette and made for the door. Out into the February rapids of Greenwich Village. West along 3rd until I hit Macdougal. Then headed south, every step bringing me closer to Creole Nights. Wind cutting into my face.

Something in the air, alright.

Because when someone comes looking for you, then that something is going to have to happen.

## #61

## goblin.

When we made it back from the woods, doors locked, triple bolted behind us, gray afternoon streaming in through the cracks, Milo handed me every implement, instructing what to do with each one. It was IMPORTANT, he said, and made it clear I needed to remember ALL OF THEM. But a single fleck of blood splatter stuck to his cheek kept insisting, begging for attention and as he spoke, the basement walls of his childhood home absorbing our secret, all I could think was whether or not that thing was still out there.

Waiting to wander my mind, waiting in line.

## #62

## another night at the Hi-Low.

...i walked that night back, out onto the side alley, stood beneath a bathed garnet, alongside and next to and upon, _up on_ , relived the transparencies, breathed with the smoke while glass eyes shattered inside, magnetic ice from my mouth, corrupted shards creating a trail, as i walked that night back...

## #63

## the saddest song in the world.

_distancing is an art that remains unmastered_ , she told me. sifted through the albums, generous face awash in a jukebox mood. _no small surprise. hard to perfect something that simply happens. who in this world is the best at hurricaning? getting hit by a bus? ...when she loses interest_... then she paused between Dire Straits and Billy Joel, raised an eyebrow... _or he? when_ he _loses interest?_

_just she_ , i said, lit a cigarette. _but not_ only _she, if i'm sure you understand_.

_when they lose interest_ , she continued, _it goes away all at once. people like to pretend there's a slow build, gradual increments. less sex, of course, if any. but that's an almost superficial concern compared to the day she walks away from you in the middle of a story. maybe then she doesn't spend quite so much time near you at parties, gigs, any event where there's any option past your presence. there used to be kisses between hello and goodbye. that sense... sinking into your empty stomach that you've become less of a desire and more of a weather report. shell casing. an umbrella that won't open. gift card for a store that long since went out of business_...

i stared across the room, subterranean and russet-bricked. pretended to take an interest in empty tables and the remarkable sunlight that chose its moments with such accuracy.

_now,_ re _-distancing_... she punched out a few numbers. letters. stubby fingers along the buttons of a bygone touchtone... _there's something you can get good at, Lucky. and someone with your track record... the swiftness with which people realize just how ordinary you are. average, bordering on boring... here, last song picked, come on back to the bar with me_.

i followed her hips, thought about reaching out to wrap my arm around, how good it once felt to walk side-by-side with someone while they laughed. we hit our marks. barstools waiting. bartender pushing two fresh whiskey-sodas. one lime, one sans. red neon buzzing, blazing circuits radiating down.

_re-distancing_ can _be perfected_. She reached for my pack, had herself one. offered me the lighter as though it weren't about to end right back in her hands, ten minutes tops. _once you see the signs, you're going to have the urge to go cold. one-up. top her distance with a little backtrack of your own... don't. she may not care about you anymore, but she does care. she just doesn't want to know you know how little you matter. i know what you're thinking; it's not technically shutting someone out if what's inside doesn't matter to them anymore, but hold on... you're already kind of ridiculous to her. you used to be funny. now you're a joke. so keep making jokes. she used to listen to you. keep on talking. keep on keepin' on. feed her disinterest. let it blossom. and while she's learning just how incidental you are, possibly always were, make your own plans_...

her selections came around, hiss and pop from the speakers. the sniff of a quick return to consciousness, seated up straight in bed. double checking to ensure you haven't eaten your pillow at some point during the night.

she tapped ash with a wrist folded in fourths, had a drink. _re-distancing. when you stand by her, remember she's already gone. but stay where you are. stop, on the sly, mentioning those plans you once had to visit that one place, maybe for a week or so where you'd get away from it all. with any luck she's already forgotten that was once a dream you both built one morning in bed, too busy with six months from now to care that in two hours you both had to be at work. your inside jokes stopped making her smile a while ago. first time fumbling for a way to get that underwear off. eggs shaped like legs. the time the cat actually jumped over the moon. let them go. same as your finer qualities. if she once liked a story you wrote, or the particular description of a broken candle, well, that's just what a brand-new day looks like before it sinks in; then you realize it's a brand-new day_.

i nodded. had another cigarette. watched her beat toes against the bar to a song that insisted _life's so different than it is in your dreams_. told her this was a good one.

_so you should know_ , she said, ignoring my attempt at opinion. turned to face me. cupped my scruffy, hollow cheeks in her hands. moved my head. directed my eyes towards hers, as i thanked my knees for not having to stand on their own.

_when you look into her eyes, pick your favorite memory_ , she said. _i know you've been working hard to kill it because it's already wounded. deep cuts, blood gushing, seeping into the floor, turning tap shoes into the sound of wet sobs. but hang on to it. let it light your every expression like a runway. she'll see it and remember just why there was never anything there to begin with. you are what once was. a never-was. your gift is affirmation. and your defense is the knowledge that you haven't been taken by surprise. you're not a sucker. you were, of course, the first time you told her how you felt, or cried, or revealed something more of yourself that only served to make you as uninteresting as the person you've become. but for now, you can let her be bored. let her realize. and when she finally admits there's nothing left, there will be nothing. you turned an upside-down table into your favor. got ahead of the game and helped her walk away. you went the re-distance, Lucky_.

it felt like she was done with me. pulled back her hair and tied it. shed some new light on those intelligent features and made me wonder how knowing someone for just over an hour could result in what came next.

_your song just repeated_ , i said. _same song. did you mean to do that?_

she shrugged. crushed the butt of her cigarette, one last exhale.

i killed what was left. wrapped my lips around the straw for good measure. _this is my favorite album. one of my favorites of forever and all time_.

_so?_ she asked. _want to ask me to dance or some dumb fucking thing?_

_i don't want to do anything_ , i said. _ever again_.

she laughed. _i think we just made your favorite memory_.

the bartender hardly gave us a mention that morning. we stumbled our way out onto the floor, between a pair of tables. one with a population of two, no longer talking to each other. was it the fact that there was a cat asleep in the corner? a pen stuck to the ceiling with no explanation? or maybe it was just our time to stare. give each other the courtesy of our eyes, arms wrapped close. breath rancid, dry, tongues stuck to the tops of our mouths.

and for a few moments there, we danced towards forward, that day.

we were just so fucked, the two of us secretly agreeing.

dancing to the saddest song in the world.

## #64

## alphabet cum.

i'm not going to not say what it was about that single entirety. sometimes you marvel at on top, side to side, from behind. one of us gets strapped down, turned around. so many ways you can breathe into someone's ear, maybe several someones if the world had a way of smiling that day. there is no such thing as the best. sometimes, it's chest to chest. then again, the sweet and severe meld to welcome parallel positions that give hands – and this is nice – an absolute everywhere; legs that widen up towards thighs, occupied slit, clit, can you catch the chance and wish for a while, if only my fingers were tongues. actually every last bit of me object, subject to investigation. and what if there were several of me, wait. what if there were so many of you, hang on, one more time. either hand tied, joint spreadeagle, and even though there was no way to touch each other beyond, we're talking warm, absolute damp and luxurious kisses, there would still be more of us. so many ways i could straddle, six ways from stupid you could rub yourself, waist giving in to whatever yesterday was, just one hour ago it seems it was December, and one of us would open our mouths, seek. sublime. sleek. all of us slither, take the time to feel, and find for real so we could all flip each other over. back, knees, shoulder blades, maybe one of our one of us would slide between us so neither could tell them how good it feels. neither one of us could even sit up without someone in our face, behind us, kiss one more time. if one hand is bound behind, the other me, you, gets to search, feel. pinch and scratch, how many hands with their endless ammunition, spelling out the last time we felt the world collapse, swallowed, swallowed, covered in each other, why stop when the brilliance of a single hip peeks out between the tangle of sheets. a needle drowned in water. imagine the world in your eyes, wide and wired, when was the last time you wished for something that just wouldn't stop.

and okay, one of us breathes. _can we?_

have you ever, this, hard as you could, and ever would to the tempo of

_please_.

_yes_.

## #65

## bounce.

Two things about Juice that he did not like: his name and his job.

Because his Christian name was actually David, and his job was all he had ever been told he was good for.

"This new place..." He cut into his steak, opened for a bite. "Not much better from my days at the Limelight. Or Life, back on Bleeker. Grandma, it's just..." He swallowed. Reached for the salt and knocked over the pepper. Reached for the pepper and knocked over the salt. He felt the walls of the tiny Canarsie apartment close in. One bedroom, third-floor walk-up, nothing on the walls and only four dishes: two bowls, a handful of plastic cutlery on rotation from wherever it made sense to grab dinner on any given night.

"Dammit, Grandma, I'm too fucking huge..." Juice shook his head, held up his hand as he picked up the chess pieces. "Sorry. Just too huge. No need to curse, I know how you feel about that." He gave his steak a bit of the brine and set about cutting another piece. "I'm so big. Every place we move to gets smaller. I want a big place. I want a lawn, you know? Get myself a dog I can play with, something I can love. I mean, I love you..." Another overdone bite, wishing he had asked for ketchup when placing the pickup. "I love you, but... We get lonely, don't we? You get lonely living with me, right? I know you would if you could, I don't know, just walk. Maybe take in a movie more than once every year. Talk to someone about it. I mean, not talk. You can't, I know, but... I would love that lawn. A dog to talk to... can't have a dog in the city. Not fair. Not fair, a dog needs a place to run. Be free."

The radio was tuned to the classical station. Taking a break to remind him of Persian rugs he couldn't afford, or why not take his business to PianoPiano out on West 54th.

He laughed. Took a moment to rub his head, follow the bald curve, feel dark skin leaking sweat in the heatwave of mid-July. "Like I'm gonna go buy a piano all of a sudden. Just 'cause."

Juice sighed, remembering. "There's this guy. At work. Does the door with me. White dude. Some kind of eye-talian. Crazy dude. You've seen empty eyes before, I remember that with Morgan before he died. Even though I was young. Crazy eyes, he likes the job. He loves it. Tonight, I was – " He stopped. Couldn't find it in him to chew his steak, had to swallow it half done. "He loves talking about the quota. He's happy, in the same way that I'm... He's happy about it. He tells people, Grandma, he wants it to be known, _this_ is why you don't get to come in, because we got too many of you... Because he wants the fight." Juice found it in himself to have another bite of steak, doubled the take with a helping of mashed potatoes. "Tonight, he fucked someone up. Don't even know – sorry, I know you don't like cursing, but he... no other way to say it. He just loves it. He was so happy slamming that guy against the wall. Picked him up like he was nothing. And he threw him. Guy was already bleeding from everywhere, rag doll, and the dude threw him. Threw him, like... it felt almost halfway down the block."

Juice sighed, happy as he could be to hear some actual music. Claude Debussy, keys replacing the techno thump, thump, thump, "Thump," he said. "I could _hear_ the guy hit the ground... And dude told the guy, _Next time you step to my club, don't be dressed like you're heading out to buy a forty_."

He looked across the table, waited for some reaction.

His grandmother stared back, so far from the situation. Fingertips resting along the tires, wheelchair on lock. Hair a plasticine grey, face a wrinkled beauty mark made up of one single expression.

Gone.

"Dude turned to me," Juice said, placing massive hands in his lap. Slouching. The only time he was allowed to not be big. Not be huge, too large for himself or anyone who came across his path. "He turned to me and said, _I can't wait to tell my kid about this. Someday, he's gonna grow up, and I don't know... maybe it's gonna be legal to shoot people at that point, I hope to God it is... He's going to have it so much better than me_ , that's what he said."

Juice helped himself to another bite. Because he had to. Because protein. Because his job, because...

"... Because when I go on the job, I take off my Army ring. Because I don't want to hurt nobody. I don't want to hurt. Understand?" He swallowed, stared out the window to another brick wall. "And how am I going to have a kid? You know, apart from nobody wants me, how am I going to give a woman a child, when there's this other one out there? With a father like that...?"

Juice took his made-for-hire fingers to the fringes of his plate and pushed it to the center of the table. Enough room to curl his arms. Fold. Biceps, triceps, forearms like pillows for his head. He felt his breath bounce back, filling his nostrils as he said: "I'm not sleeping, Grandma. Going to put you to bed soon, I'm just..."

He sighed.

David took a moment to wipe the evening clean, and as a police car sparked its siren, he realized it:

"I just want a dog, Grandma." He licked his lips and tried not to let 5 a.m. make itself known to the rest of his neighborhood. "I just want.... I just want a dog in this fight."

He closed his eyes and pretended to hear her nod.

## #66

## Day One.

Delilah stood above his body, watching the blood spread from his heart out across the Easter-blue Hugo Boss. Slumped against the leather sofa as he looked up at her, teeth laminated with a fresh coat of pain. He looked up at her and

unbelievably enough, he was smiling.

"There's more of us," he said. Grinned. He grinned. "There's more of us."

It was two days ago that Delilah had connected with Chris online. Perfect match, per the algorithm. Into books. Into conversation. Up for a second date, second chance, no matter the first... loved animals of all kinds.

"There's more of us," he repeated. Defiant. "There are more of us."

Delilah felt her fingers tighten around the handle of the stainless steel Yoshihiro knife, could hear the blood running along the blade, drip-drops, carpet fibers around her feet soaking in the stain.

Four hours ago, she had met him for drinks at a simple, standard bar called the Bishop. He had dragged over one of the barstools, saying she should sit.

"Sit."

And now he was laughing. Just another minute or so before he would die, and he was still _LAUGHING_.

"There's more of us," he giggled. "Yeah, Delilah, there's more."

It was two hours since, after a few gin and tonics, he had smiled and agreed wholeheartedly with the last thing she said. Same as he had with her last 75 statements, and he said,

"You should check my place out. I've got at least four books on the Italian Renaissance, plus a painting or two that might interest you."

She thought, why not, and now it was

"There are more of us."

He was coughing, choking on his blood now, and Delilah started thinking, not just about what had brought her here but what she could possibly do with herself after the fact.

Because it was now

five minutes since she had accidentally sent her drink down the drain of the sink, refilled it with water from the LG fridge, ice cubes covering for what was supposed to be gin... and it turned out to turn out, just a little something to make this night just a little less memorable.

"You can't stop us," he said. White face impossibly drained of even more color, practically vomiting his insides out, pastel polo turned Pollack, so soaked Delilah could hear the squish of his blood, and to him, _it didn't matter_. "There's too many of us."

It had now been two minutes since he thought the drugs had worked their magic, reached from behind, slipped a hand around, down, up, _up_ , fingers going right for her pussy, unabashed, grabbing, another hand on her left tit, mouth close to her ear , breath hot, volcanic and invasive, dangerous, murmuring

"Fuck, yes, bitch, that's what you like..."

She didn't.

And she reached for the knife, 30 seconds since she wrapped her fingers around the handle, whipped a 180, turned and did what had to be done, 25 seconds since she sunk her steel into his chest, 20 seconds as she watched him stumble back through the kitchen, into the living room, and she thought, _I just killed a man, I killed a man and now what_ , but

now

he kept laughing, and she thought, Delilah thought, for real, that he would never _die_ , just fucking die, his blood-laminated grin would never die, lips red as she waited for him to just die –

"There are so, so many more of us," he chortled. Lazily massaged his inner thigh. Moved up to give his dick one last affectionate rub. "There are more of us, and you. Can't. Win."

Enough.

The electric build-up in Delilah's body reached its limit and she swung. Overhead smash. Brought the blade down into his neck. She saw disbelief in his eyes, so lucid she was petrified that her kill shot hadn't done the trick.

One second later, he was dead.

Delilah let go of the knife. Still lodged in Chris's throat. Saw inadvertent post mortem movements sending it up, down, up, down.

She turned and walked to the door.

It had been 30 minutes since he had helped Delilah out of her coat, and the thought of slipping it back on after accepting the gesture didn't jive with the moment. She reached for his instead. A tan suede piece of seven-hundred-dollar craftsmanship with Southwest tassels that reached her knees, hands remarkably capable of peeking past the sleeves.

She walked down the steps and out into the Manhattan evening. February raindrops suspended in the air. Journey incomplete. Time on a double lapse, waiting.

Hung her head, looking to clear some space, when she saw the ring winking up at her.

Delilah knelt down. Brass ring. Not Army, Navy, or Marines. Emblem of a broken heart, split in half by a skeleton key. A small scroll of paper rolled up where an index, thumb, any finger should have been.

She picked it up.

Unrolled the scroll.

Those opening words telling her all she needed to know.

_Dear Delilah... There_ are _more of us_.

And she understood.

Slipped the ring on and found it a perfect fit.

Bundled herself up in Chris's leather jacket as the frozen rain came crashing down around newly animated detail. All things touching, coursing through due course. Delilah entirely at one with the early minutes

of Day One.

## #67

## kisses, no question.

can we revel in what might be the almighty, and talk about that kiss?

is it safe to say there was a pool of light on the corner of South Murat and Palmyra and it was all spontaneous, slow and smiling, while maybe a stray went tiptoeing past, just ten seconds or so after you turned and said, _hey_. _kiss me_.

should we pay the cover for that live show, and maybe i hadn't eaten in a few days, so the shots went straight to wherever my head was, laughing in berserk baroque over a cover of _Big Country_ , leading to an immediate encounter of tongues in E major that swept the surface of our lips, as you reached down with a reckless giggle to check on what you didn't have to look forward to.

can we please, if only, not regret our time at the end of the world, blanket on the grass, Vermont, if only because I can't remember the moment, even though this was a time before the taste of liquor replaced, replaced, and the best part was touching, fingers without fault, eyes shut, and were there even stars left after that.

should we ask your sweater, which you were so hell-bent on removing, zipper caught in your clothes, whether it planned for extraction to lead to a sudden swoop, caught me by surprise that time, riding shotgun in a parked car, biting down on my lower lip, wondering how it was possible for the heat to blow against my teeth without ignition.

have you ever wondered how much that superintendent hated us, to come around the corner of a brightly lit hallway, plain as day, to catch us rolling around on a deck of spent cards, aces and jacks with their one eye trained on us, and i might have made a conscious effort to lick your earlobe for just a moment before returning to the world as we knew it.

when was it that an open-air garage caused us both to drop our cigarettes and the aggressive pressure of our mouths made for smoke, traded between wide kisses, open wide, waiting for tomorrow's rainstorm and satellite thunder. it was June, maybe.

was it just context, the fact that our first kiss was the morning after we were both cornered by a dirtywhitehatboy who insisted on telling us the story about the time he was piloting his private plane, and oh how that story stretched on, and you looked at me in the middle, lips curved along with eyes that asked, can we finally, how long are we going to have to wait while the rain gets to make us moist.

should we take a moment to thank the ocean for making it easier, adding a little salt to our taste, and weightless wonder that made it so simple for our kiss to involve your legs wrapped around me.

can we follow the trail of evidence, scratches ensconced with black bruises along the back, for no reason other than there was no other bed left to share, and nothing else to do but drill into eyes so wide, i wonder when we found the time for plump trophies, we kissed so deep.

may we flip both our scripts, make it ok that it was a fast one, just lips pressed together in front of an audience, because funny has a place between faces, and you said you don't kiss smokers, but look what i just lit to commemorate the memory.

would we be wrong to brag about the time the clock hit midnight, only just this once, it was my tongue and your lips, and hips had something to say about it, can we just brag on the thousand places a kiss can take place.

or would it be that first time, just before you hopped into the shower, and i kissed your grin, a cheshire moment of pure destination.

i'm spent.

so much wet, and drip, saliva, so perfect and can we ask ourselves, let the question marks go, how can we afford to forget the taste of static, cling, close, these memories that border on a delicate form of French, full, perfect iteration of every last part that opens.

## #68

## predictably heartbroken.

"The problem is, you're boring," she told me, just as Korben had told me. "You're predictably heartbroken. I've been reading through your secrets. Doesn't take a fine-toothed comb to see what's got you stuck. You're obsessed with the ocean, the sky, the palm tree. Sex. Sex, as though it were your invention, you really believe you're the first person to think of it? You do know everyone has it, and they're probably better at it than you. Right? You're shallow as Gulf Coast waters, 'cept they got actual stories to tell. If you had even sixty cents in your pocket, you'd wish for nine more and a roll of quarters. The last time you had an original idea it was just me, telling you that you might have had an original idea. I know you lie on your side, absently lick the back of your hand and pretend it were anything else. Hip, neck, collarbone, pussy, whatever keeps you in the business of repeating. Have you even considered the drag you impose on conversations? Quick doesn't translate into funny, sexy. Anything that anyone would bother with, but you, turns out, made an art out of pretending to be interesting. Must be interesting that the only interesting thing about you is your ability to make fake. My god, you keep your mouth shut in social situations, dress the silence as something worth listening to, when all there is, the instant you open your mouth, is the moronic slice of a lime in your drink. Seriously. The elixir that keeps your hands from shaking is stronger than ten times yourself on any given day. Have you ever wondered why nobody sticks around to listen to you? Coincidence? Wormhole? Is it denial? You're so fucking important that she or he, or anyone, needs their space from how intense you are, _My god, Lucky, you're just so much that I can't handle it_... Or maybe they were just done. Maybe there's a cemetery plot, urn, bottom portion of the Mississippi just waiting for you. You're the type that already has his headstone spelled out, just in case anyone cared that you were murdered in a central-city bar, cancer, whatever it is that will spare the rest of us. Epitaph? How about: _Here lies_. That's it. Here lies. If you were any more than something, you'd still be nothing. Meaningless was created as a way to deal with your smile, face, everything about you... Jesus, Lucky, you are so _boring_."

I felt the line behind me swell with anxious curiosity. "So can I get a coffee to go?" I repeated "Please? My head is hurting something sharp and clearly predictable."

She came to. Perhaps unsure of where the pair of us had gone. Still sure she was right, though. Tousled blonde hair hanging over topside eyebrows. Dark irises considering why we had gone down this path. Coming to. The kind of face I could fall in love with if I weren't so clearly incapable. "Sorry?"

"Just a coffee."

Someone from the back of the line registered their complaints, wishing we could just move, move, move.

I passed on the coffee and walked past him.

He wore his suit well, buzz cut and a decent shave that spoke volumes.

He was boring.

I decided to let the day go, wandered out onto Canal Street and gave my change to someone who might know where the dissonance lay.

## #69

## secret 69.

searching the side streets for number 69, because maybe there's a joke to be found somewhere in there, and it seems to me the worst of secrets are admissions of pleasure, allowing for weakness, so please give in to our favorite number anyway and let the day head its way, think of a pillow at the end of the bed, hands wrapped in a mouthful, and the best part beyond the taste is how well legs set against palms that would otherwise be alone, can you accurately program music to the sentiment of _are you kidding_ , how could this possibly be so perfect, because the last time we deserved this kind of coincidence, you were wondering how close, and of course, when would be the next time you had such sublime thighs wrapped around your face, an entire mattress, or floor, or more soaring, river land kisses pouring out, you must have known, you would never, come ever, what were the odds, you would ever come across this secret again?

## #70

## gallery.

What do you mean, what do I mean?

In this universe I didn't leave Los Angeles all at once, never mind what I told James.

This one was a premeditated countdown, walking the streets of the San Fernando Valley.

Tender age of eighteen. Side by side with an introspective, unfathomable girl by the name of Leah.

Leah, large forehead, gigantic eyes. Miniature smile always on the cusp of wielding a more hopeful weapon.

I'll tell you more about her someday.

Just outside an art gallery, when we were hailed by a roper with the head and body of a slender, silhouetted extraterrestrial. He invited us in to have a look around. One thousand or so square space. Bright lights shining down on five hundred or so rectangles. Stretched canvas. Watercolor, oil-based, fingerpaints. Pick a medium. Pick a theme, any theme.

"And they're all mine," he said. Ducked down behind an easel.

Emerged with a beer and an olive-strapped martini.

"Where'd you get the scratch?" I asked him. Watched as Leah made her way, an anonymous friend in hand, checking images off a transparent list. "These are all yours?"

"That's not an appropriate question, Lucky," he said. Pulled back on his beer, and tilted. Let it pour down his chin, on the floor. Gestured with the martini. "Now you're going to have to wait for this."

"I didn't want it."

"Yes, not tonight."

He wasn't looking to land a sale.

Took a sip of his cocktail and motioned towards the back.

I let myself slide, losing track of Leah and the outside.

Settled in before a framed six-by-two piece. Brushstrokes in the key of blue. Two figures standing face to face. One, a short, full-figured woman. Young woman. Wide eyes staring blankly over her pert little nose. Mesmerized by an upright cartoon beagle. Dead ringer for Snoopy in his later years.

"I like his one," I told him.

"Speaks to you, does it?" he asked.

"Yes... got a title?"

"Yes... _she just realized her husband is a dog_."

I told him I would buy it for twenty dollars.

Going price was fifteen hundred.

I turned to ask Leah for the remaining $14,980.

She had already left the gallery.

The curator offered me his beer. "Are you ready now?"

Bottle neck just under my nose.

Familiar smell so close to nothing, it seemed good a time as any.

"Not ready," I told him. Gave myself another moment with last night. Left behind on the rooftop. Leah's words like cold cellophane, cars and lights in the Valley trapped, sealed. Locked in, worrying what if I would ever have to feel this way again.. "Snow globe."

"Paper weight," he said. "Shake it hard enough, and there's a moment when all those flakes touch each other."

"I don't believe you."

"Want to try it again?"

"Yes."

"Could be worse this time around."

"How many times before I don't have to see this ugly fucking piece of work?"

He held out the martini. "Any day now."

I accepted the offer and drained it.

Flowing down my throat, up my snout.

The smell of juniper mixing with my steps as I moved towards the painting.

Stepped on through and took one last look.

Saw Leah skipping back through the gallery door.

Wondering. Annoyed. Concerned.

Ambivalent was the worst part.

Enough to send me through the frame, sucked in between that beagle and his newly enlightened wife, plaster paste surrounding me, into my eyes, ears, every part that had an opening, even my ass wondering what would be left of me when I came out the other side.

## #71

## we lasted through winter.

i was sideways, asleep, or thought i was, between them, worried what if i would never feel this way again. morning just starting to peak. wouldn't make its way through those blinds for a good bit, no use for the future. just an indication seeping in through kitchen windows. catastrophic gold. in love, two times over, with what has to have been the best life had ever presented me. turned flat on my stomach. gave myself a chance through this rose-tinted headache, taste of borrowed Champagne halfway gone from my brain. gave my lips a lick and tasted a memory, had to check my body, all covered in glitter and glam, wondering how, and now it was five years ago, hotel room and a suicide attempt, and why decide to drift when i could dream, because that was when both their legs chose a deep sleep moment to wrap themselves around me.

i smiled and the sensation taught my teeth a little something about what i didn't deserve.

resisted the recommendation of a ghost i once knew, gave myself another go at a perfect day, remnants of bite marks on my shoulder, familiar trace on my mouth, begging for a second guess.

because from where i was, kissing the back of either neck was as simple as turning side to side, and i could run my hand down both bodies, simply be there, for as long as anything lasts, because we were forged in winter, and let's keep springtime out of this for the moment.

because now it was twenty years ago since i had sat on the rooftop of a San Fernando house in the hills, and worried what if i would ever have to feel this way again.

## #72

## the everything.

at one point we even gave ourselves credit for the stars, if you can imagine that. not a collective we, if you look back, on track, just far enough, if and only if there were some who must have known that the sky won't wait, sends delayed seconds down towards halfway-house caresses, tongues, all that happens far too infrequently, and we are obsessed, tooth and nail, with how things taste.

## #73

## at the gates.

sat myself outside. red steps. back against a closed door. cigarette. Jack Daniel's. music still bumping, catching a row of bikes parked against the fairground fence.

and what was on my mind...

6:25, here's how the air feels on a perfect day, taste of a willow tree. sun at a lower level, some 71 degrees. plane in the sky, coat tailing a banner for Cats Karaoke and the pilot can't see it, but she's not paid to care, it's only me. seagull flying past, wondering who's going to be looking up at this bird anytime soon. pedestrians with canes. so many limps, so exactly how damaged is everyone in this city? pregnant woman nursing a Diet Coke. stroller for the next cycle, mother and ambulating child both with headphones, passing on wisdom from one ear to the next. gospel kicking around. seven bike riders in a row, and one more without foot traffic, then i get my wish. turns out my hope is too dirty for destiny to allow, so instead a waiter, fresh off his shift at Santa Fe, takes long strides to make it through the pride just a little faster. cat crawls by. stares at me as though i forgot to buy him a drink. but i can't be bothered, because the blonde trailing two steps behind her boyfriend pauses to send me a smile, causing the sun to dim for just one second; did the world just end? maybe not, because now a pair of gray horses go past, off the beaten track, no numbers or odds, can't beat the spread, two officers atop, both women, smiling behind tinted rims. a single stoic senior walking along with bulging garbage bags. some kind of story bundled up inside them. and the patrolman leads with his badge. tells the kids slinging _ice cold water, only one dollar_ to beat it from the streets, points west and east, because, let's face it, that's what they do best. then i stare at a pair of compact shorts, bent over, jeans that whisper hello somehow louder than the tattered music of a closing act. and speaking of which, foot traffic is speeding up, survivors with chairs all coiled, slung over sunburned backs. packing it in before the headliners make headlines, making minds invent their excuse, why show when you can't even prove? and i feel like royalty, because to them living seven steps from Jazz Fest is like Beverly Hills, though next month ain't necessarily booked and even the mosquitoes won't bother with what's already been spent. it's going to grow quiet soon. this is just a drill. day one winds down like a circular slide, and inside Kiki's taking a nap from the noise, while our imaginary girlfriend is barely one mile away, barely thinking of us anymore, wondering why a table of tourists can't stop drinking water, ordering nothing, sharing spreadsheets under the glare of last call.

and all i can think of, as the wind makes plants nod in tempered measures and sends the city into a never always coma, is how tired i am, how stuck i've been, pretending to pretend, again and again, that there are people i don't think about and love when i'm sitting, facing north.

## #74

## ghost.

you know the ambivalent stride, path some three sidewalks wide. and while you found yourself fishing, waiting for _what if_ , the rest of us were waylaid by _we know_ , we're reminded, we live with it now, and that clever little crease against your pillow face is going to stay, rupture, smiles on repeat, reemerging, until those legs carry you past what was so interchangeable, stuck, scissors left to cut away what was left, hair collecting in footfalls, what style will suit this time around, when eyes turn sideways and we tell each other, see?

## #75

## let's go to the videotape.

I walked into the empty shut-down of a bar in New Orleans. Mid-City location, unpopulated as the streets at that 4 a.m. hour. Took a half-position along the bar. Stared at the flat-screen monitor. Grainy whites, blacks, grays that gave the impression of mild blues. Polarity split into twelve quadrants. Real time. Security cameras going about the business of protecting us all from ourselves.

One of the last remaining bartenders strolled up. Brown skin reflecting all the other sets far above the bar, highlights of every last game played in the past 24 little hours. Braids pulled up in a bun. Eyes shaped by impatience, every last person who'd been in and out since sundown.

"Settling up?"

"I've been paying in cash. Buying whiskey sodas? One with a lime, two without?"

She gave me a look.

I nodded. "Speaking of not remembering, I could use a favor."

She turned away. Walked down the bar and shoveled ice. Sent the big hand of a whiskey bottle down to the bottom of the clock. Added soda and brought it back. Placed it down.

Could have told her I was the one taking mine with a lime, but this seemed like a promising step towards leaving by example. Handed her a twenty. She turned to the register, came back with my change, when I stopped her.

"Thanks for the drink, but that's not what I meant by favor." Could feel her reaching under the bar for that panic button and kept on. "Could I get the tape for your security cameras?"

Given those words, the implications, it was another godsend to see her smirk: "Tape? What are you, a hundred?"

"Hundred kisses deep."

"You just made that up."

"Leonard Cohen."

"I mean the reply."

"Whatever it is," I moved the straw aside and took a long swallow of whiskey soda, no lime. "Could you please erase it? Just tonight."

"Say what?"

"Or whatever, it's probably a digital thing. Just get rid of the past hour if you could. Fuck it, I'll take the past five minutes. Just get rid of it."

"Oh my god." Once again, she didn't sense danger. And once again, I hoped, she took an interest. "What are we talking about?"

"What's it going to take?"

She pulled a pen out of her apron. Chewed on the cap. Gave me time to notice an ink stain on her left breast, shape of a turtle beneath a raincloud. She walked into the back, gave me a few seconds with my drink. Returned with a remote. "Show me."

Speed bump. Or not.

"Will you give me erasure if I do?"

"Show me and then, who knows?"

I sighed. Had another pull of my drink and motioned. She went with the rewind. We watched friends, lovers, service industry, rich, broke, happy, sad, glad trace their way back to the point where I was forced to say _stop_.

"There it is," I told her.

"What am I looking at?"

I wound my watch to the upper left quadrant, the string of wooden picnic tables outside Finley's. Pointed. Myself and Kiki Capri. Seated across from each other. Dalia by her side, all of us alternating between drinks and cigarette smoke, a triad of soundless figures discussing whatever. Weather, construction on Napoleon Ave, steps of the Metropolitan Museum, New York City...

"So that's it," I said. "That's the moment she broke up with me."

She paused. Then paused. "Which one?"

"The one with the red hair."

"It's a black-and-white –"

"You know the one, come on."

"Yeah."

"I just wanted to know, in this situation, would you be willing to bend the rules a little? Sleight of hand, just... It just kills me, damages me to know this is out there, and I was curious. Wanted to know. Can you get rid of it? Can this somehow be our little secret?"

She thought about it while I took another sip of whiskey.

"No evidence?"

"Please."

"What do you do?" she asked.

"Well, I would erase the tapes, but – "

"I mean what do you do? For a job. Living. Money, you know?"

There were only so many lies I had left in me: "I'm a writer."

She drew back. "And you you're honestly trying to tell me, after all this talk of erasure, that you're never going to write about this?"

Well, that was that. I drank what I could before she snatched the drink from my hand. The cocktail straw was still stuck between my middle and index fingers. She made short work of that, too, and pointed.

"Door's that way."

I gave the security cameras one last hello and went out the way I came.

Stepped out into the streets.

Kiki greeted me with a warm kiss. Taste of whiskey and half a pack of Parliaments along pink carnation lips. "What took you so long?"

"Thought experiment," I told her.

Dalia joined us. Wrapped her arm around my waist and placed her lips on mine. My eyes were still closed as she asked: "But we're closed out?"

"Been paying cash all night." I stared up at the sky and breathed in, knowing it wasn't an eclipse or blood moon, or even some other regrettable story I had tucked under my belt.

But just to be sure, "I love you," I told them.

"I love you, too, Lucky," Kiki said.

"Love," Dalia said. "But too much."

We all kissed, so reminiscently perfect of so many secrets, so many universes I had dipped in and out of, so unbelievably certain that even though it was only a matter of time before I fucked this up, that something was, for once, going right.

We all three of us stumbled down Banks Street, cut a right on Carrolton searching for Palmyra, kisses, no question.

...So I lied to the woman behind the bar.

Might now be she has a story or two to tell herself.

And what do you want from me, anyway?

They're _fucking secrets_.

# ###
