Prick

White men's blues. I have been forgiven. Last night would have been nice. I get him what he wants and then he turns it away. I just want to be even. For him to feel some shame. I will never be able to face my father again. I thought he was. His face fast against porcelain and quick to the floor. This bitch got the blues. In that book behind bars mouths were stuffed deep and full of prick and silence and warm. I never keep jokers in my decks. I feel ugly. I lost him in Ypsilanti next door to the big dick. I had never felt such joy. You beautiful crazed thing. It is a curse. Nothing is sacred so I'm stuck with the plague. I remember Mexico and the silver and the man in a yellow shirt and cargo pants telling me in broken English about nothing I can remember but thinks maybe I should have jotted some of it down. I can't seem to settle my feet.