Since I’ve somehow fucked things up with Maggie…
I spend Valentine’s day with Jennene, who I used to go clubbing with five years ago, and who I used to kiss even though Jennene is a flannel clad dyke who’d kick my ass if I ever slipped her the tongue-- Jenenne would only let me kiss the perched hyphen on her face, once, very quickly—after we snuck into the girls’ bathroom at the Red Fox Den and snorted lines of coke off the porcelain bicep of the sink, in front of a rather philosophical rainbow painted above a sad browed mirror proclaiming the Lesbian mantra: I KANT EVEN DRIVE STRAIGHT, we’d chop up powdery caterpillars, inhaling honest sniffs as the grainy olfactory sentences drilled saccharine numbness into nasal canyons and then we’d dance, our hips straddled tightly beneath the stutter and crooked din of the dance floor, chinking long-necks Jennene would stop between cinder shots and tell me that she loves me before our eyes would close at the same exact time—like dual garage doors slowly digesting strafed genitals into the cement palate of wayward loss.
Vespers
We drove home drunk, mistaking the thud for a speed bump until Kirby got out, vomiting a crimson rug near the fuel tank and realized that we had run over something; his bicycle upside down, banana cushioned and wheels oscillating like a spindle; two spoked binoculars grating in dismayed wondering in what direction the wind will whistle.
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