It is true that she launched a rock into the head of a boy with a close crew cut and made his temples bleed. He was crouching over the ground and playing marbles with the other boys. It is true that she wrapped a love note around the rock. It is true that she took a cigarette lighter to her hair. That she loved Frankie Goes to Hollywood before she learned to read. It is true that she learned Italian by reading her father’s [    ] mags. It is true that before she started [          ] her father had a habit of [     ] his [   ] into [   ] [  ] It is true, her mother said, that she sometimes exaggerated. It is true, her teacher said, that she didn’t like community service and receiving criticism. It is true that she learned how to [        ] to Electric by the Cult. Wild honey child, etc. It is true that her favorite words are wild and fire. It is true that her first kiss was with a pretty glue huffer. It is true that a butch girl fisted her once into the sternum. It is true that she had a thing for [    ] and androgyny. It is true that she once charmed a cop on the streets of a war-torn town, so much so a foreigner proposed to her on the spot, called her his destiny. The foreigner was a Capricorn rising so of course he got [  ] when he saw a woman work her way with authority. It’s true that her Venus was in detriment. And that a man once threw a [    ] at her. It’s true that sometimes she felt cinematic. Like when that cute doctor made her sit topless in a cold examination room, then lowered his face down to her heart level and gazed at her lumpy [      ]. It’s true that she’d make herself [  ] when stuck in traffic. It’s true that she once [   ] a man for nine hours straight. It’s also true that his wife called him BC, short for Beautiful [    ]. It’s true that every stranger on the phone who promised her a big hard [     ] turned out to be a drunk with a short fat [    ]. It is true that beautiful men made her feel like she was a sleek silver fish with a hot hook in her lip. That is all. That is all she had. Half a lip. Its wild burn. Blood on her teeth.

A man asks a woman out for lunch to a café with a pepto-pink patio. She orders pomegranate parfait and he fried chicken biscuit. Afterwards she gives him a blow job in his car. Next time they meet, he takes her out to a Japanese joint. He wants to do something nice for her because she drove six hours to see him. He suggests a sushi and sashimi moriawase, hot sake. She asks for a tuna roll and tea. That night they have sex on the sofa and fall asleep in their clothes. After abortion she gives him her oxies. When he is in town next, she leaves her husband and goes to a store to get wine. She isn’t sure what kind he likes, so she buys three types, plus a purple port, and meets him in a vacant studio. They open a red blend and pour it into solo cups. The cups get slippery while they fuck on the futon. Her anus bleeds for days. He stops by in winter. In one hand she holds a bowl of beetroot and nasturtium, with the other she lifts her skirt up. He eats with unwashed hands. In spring they drive through the Lowcountry. He insists to take her to a nice restaurant. But a nice place is impossible to find. He’s upset. She says it’s okay, she doesn’t care about food that much. This upsets him even more. A strange undercurrent is at works. The sky starless. Dark as a grave. As a walnut. As an empty gut. They go to sleep hungry that night and they never have another meal again.

you have   the   skills   to   endure
significant    solitude.   clean   out
the  closet   of   your   heart.   you
have    free    will.    the   tower   is
reversed — you   must   bring  the
house   down   first.  see,  four  of
wands reversed: things are going
on  and  you  don't  get  to  be   in
the  party.  you   are   not   in   the
good love life  party.  but  a  wand
is a wand, I  argue,  bottom  up  or
down!   I   know  a  man  who  one
morning   went  to  the  market  to
buy    sardines    and    that   night,
while he was  frying  them  up  for
dinner,  his  heart gave up.  a  roof
is  just  a   cover,  no  matter  what
it’s   made  of,   terracotta  tiles  or
busted     floorboards      shielding
you  like  crucifixes.  plus  who’s to
say   that’s   me   standing   in   the
piles  of  debris,   looking   for   the
old  red  silk  rose  to  pin  into  the
hair.  who’s  to  say  that’s  not  you,
my   dear   reader,   my   wild   card,
waving    in      there,      oh      hello
goodbye help!