There was that initial phase, that preliminary round of small talk.
The prelude to the fuck. That dreaded roundabout carousel of emotional attachment.
A one sided palaver at a fishing hole, she had a voice that could shatter a crystal meth pipe.
I smoked with her in my ears.
She talked herself into hysteria. Her true blonde blue eyes made clear water for an old man who
rode a Harley into a tree. I held her, cried some too, & even kissed a scar on her eyebrow.
I didn’t tell her I don’t know how to fish.
Only, no sex.
Yet, next time we met, we came fast.
Then slower. And slower. Until we vanished.
But fate brought us back.
If ever there was a sure sign, this was it: when your El Camino quits the road, and you’re
stranded, and she happens along in her 3 speed 2 tone junkyard wrecker, in plain english, this is
god saying, “This ain’t the time to make love, this the time to fuck!”
In her shrill heartland hillbilly twang that could circumcise a double dicked billy goat, she said,
“Well? Get in.”
In the cab, her unpainted grin told me she knew god was in our favor.
I asked, “Is there somewhere we can go?”
There was. We beelined for a carpet store dumpster, snagged up a barndoor sized roll of brand
new scrap, & lit out for the great plain countryside.
She remarked, “The fields are pretty this time of year. They make me feel nice.”
I didn’t tell her, but I was already hard. I said, “Yeah, fields. Nice.”
Dead leaves & river bottoms. Pussy lips & apple bottoms.
Mud flap chicks dipped in chrome & splashed with shit. Cattle prods & three legged dogs.
It didn’t matter how far she drove, I forgot the road home long ago.
We slapped the carpet down on the concrete slab of a no longer standing house that had blown
away. In the wide open spectacle of giant air, we went at it.
Both of us kept our boots on. Stripped to bareback steel toe penetrations, the west nile mosquito
swarms came & drank our blood. We came together and forgave each other for the lack of love.
Mike Barlow is a self taught vulgarian. More idiot. Less savant. Self published in a thousand
penitentiary letters. Went for what felt like years running from several respected communities
most wanted lists. Has stolen food for other reasons than hunger. Rehabilitated: for the sake of
conversation. Hasn’t ever understood a thing. Couldn’t be more pleased with his (sic) self
BURNING HOUSE PRESS 