I have been talking to Roberta about your mental asphyxiation as you were squatting in the ashes. The words seemed a bit harsh and false as they came out of your mouth. You threw them against the stone walls and down from the tall white steeples. We turned the bright eyes of the pigs as we watched Archie Bunker and grew the anger in our veins. Mr. Crowley said that you were too young for an under shave and hair dip dyed in bright colors. Still you could tickle his fancy with too much hair spray and a bad angle. Mr. Crowley was a sucker for Japanese Haiku. You are more than a face, more than an earlobe. Mr. Crowley looks out his window and watches murder all day. He is knee deep in the blood of the innocents and yet he can write love poems all day. He writes love poems and dedicates them to Bonnie. He tells her that he dies in her arms every day. He is reading her lips, very carefully, hoping to understand the pauses and the miscues. Mr. Crowley has told Bonnie all about the little voices in his head. How they speak to him in the middle of the night when no one else is around. Bonnie still thinks she can afford the luxury of changing Mr. Crowley’s mind. Bonnie would picture his mind as a large waxy machine that stamped children into raspberry cookies. He was a light that showed all the secrets in the cave of her being. He was a wizard of theft and transformation as he spoke of love and the true beating sounds of his heart. Mr. Crowley is afraid that the truth will get out. He covers Bonnie in headlines. He sees monsters behind all of the trees. He wants to change the plugs in his pickup truck. He moves in and out of the land of the giant hamburgers. He is talking to a white frosted wedding cake, asking it if in knows the way to the nearest bust stop. He has all of his papers in order, just in case the police stop him and ask. But, they never have and most likely never will. He was telling the wedding cake about geothermal energy and asking women walking their dogs if they would be interested in helping him dig the shaft. He only talked to women with dogs. He considers all the dogs on the planet to be like lead soldiers on the planet Venus. He watched as the wedding cake crouched as if to be fucked from behind. The wedding cake had glassy blood-shot eyes. We watched as Mr. Crowley poked and licked her anus. He was probing for that sore place in her abdomen that made her feel all alone. Her heels over his head and laughing at the full moon.