Once, once, one day I happened to be a street kid. I sucked strange dick, I hopped freights. I lived on the whim but craved a mother. My mother was dead, I supposed she had been lovely. Perhaps she was a goddess.

I used to believe, in love. This girl I knew fucked it up for me. She was just a fucking beauty. She was saturated with this glow that came in pools when we fucked. She liked bacon on cheesy toast, bluebirds sunny side up. Her favorite color was the silver on the bottom of soup cans. Her mother was alive, a bitch, she didn’t much like me. I tried to make her love me, I bought her tickets to garden show, she went, came back and said all the flowers were dead. So, I stopped trying.

This girl killed herself. On her mother’s birthday. She was there then was gone.
They looked all over the place, it was supposed to be grand ball, like that Cinderella bitch. I was a waiter, I served the appetizers. I had two minute smoke breaks with Albert. Albert was a Jewish Mexican Anarchist. His mom was long damn dead. Stupid Jehovah’s witness, all high in mighty with her judgement. Jesus is coming soon, I hate you, she said. Albert hated that bitch.