Alone in the chain, it remains to be seen how, how well you can play when the pawn takes a queen now.

I want to be Neko Case.

Ok, there have been margaritas. Good ones, too. None of those crappy icy blender drinks. I asked the hostess what she put in them. 1/3 lime juice, 1/3 triple sec, 1/3 tequilla. Ahh. So then I should have skipped the sangria after the second one, eh?

Case has such a great voice. I tried singing along. I can do it if I push. Well, yell, really.

Just a contact high, one in every mood I’ve ever declined to fight, one in every single exchange you might find. From blown speakers, time…

I met Barry. Had I been otherwise unengaged, I would have probably scrawled some explicit instructions and my email address on a little slip of paper to be stuffed into his hand or front pants pocket at an opportune moment. But Barry, who I took to be a writer, apparently of the magazine variety, was another midwestern LA lover. Not too many of us around, we have to stick together. His friend - name unknown: woman, married, pretty and hip - was trying to convince him it was not a good idea to try to pick up coeds at the next conference he was off to. I did my best to persuade him that she was wrong and that it was a fine opportunity to get a little young sumthin’ sumthin’.

I drove home, ill-advisedly (that can’t be a word, can it?), yelling along with Neko, wondering how on god’s green earth it was possible for me, in a 1987 Honda Accord, to blow off an Impala at a light. There was a teenage boy behind the wheel, too! Oh, kids these days. Is no one teaching them how to drive agressively?

One holy ghost for a home made girl, in a green T-shirt that read, I quote: What price damnation now? In the school of thought, in the halls of state, with a leap of faith, the loose translation must have lost her. It must have caused her to go back… to the civilization caught between here and the real one, just to say what you’d begun to say once.

I don’t know why I thought avoiding alcohol would be a good idea. It’s not.

I stole a page from your book and a line from your page, and flew into a lesbian rage. Cursing mine and my own rotten luck, another nude descends a staircase to get fucked. A city scene, darkness falls, now skate hard down the gallery walls. Explore those themes, I hear your work’s informed by queens, so is mine now.