My Mind Has Snot in It

Vic and I both had shown up at late-night volca outta horniness, not piety. By the time they'd sung Admonishment to Work, we had each of us a hand on the denim of the other's strong knee.

There was no Marriage Plea, just a place to stay for a couple weeks that extended to a bud vase or gilded vintage gravy boat crashed inside the door sometimes when it went flat on me. 

I'm a dog if he couldn't have the whole loft disappointed and rearranged by the time I'd get home caked in salt from the pools the next day. I'd ask where'd you get the wood, Dave? Oh, Stella... he'd start to say:

"You know I'm in the stick trade, I cd vend a dozen lampshades, but I'd rather get you laid." I guess because of the movie lot furniture, the ink of a knight or rook he'd tried clawing out with his fingers, I stayed.

But my mind has snot in it; I remember trips to a childhood shack where his mother still lived without an upper palette, a tree that stretched across the whole garden hanging hollow doll heads, and his tooled skin wallet. 

Going back is ever a sad fable. The first time featured stainless cuffs and a hatchet, tho I found the lucky safe words, "yr bordering scary." The last starred my own dining table, but the same old dude's ass walking away.


By Mike
"I know yr out there."