You lit up your pipe of opium and rubbed up against my leg like a cat. I am reading an article about a poet. I like how at the end they drag his soul through the mud. The writer reminds us that the genius was a sick and perverted fuck. I guess the article wasn’t about the poet but about the writer. You gave off some existential threat as you blew opium smoke rings into the air. There is always more reality than our stomachs can digest. All this talk of the enemy’s infiltration spun circles around your head, a world of endless dirt that always needs to be swept under a rug. At times, you could be all leg bristle with your complicated lips. The anatomy of where hips and thighs come together, magnified, stretched and out of focus, and the hungry mouth from another world, they all come together in you as if sealed together in Reynolds wrap. You stand outside the American hotel handing out coupons. I remember the wino didn’t want to be considered a beat poet. He wants to die in Bonnie’s hair before he discovers that he is all alone. We sat around and talked about all the ugly things in life. The news man doesn’t have a theme song, but he looks like he wants one. She had little titties and large hips. His wife found him in bed, dead with a heart attack. All his juices were drained out of him. The poor little girl couldn’t get out from under him. We thought he was a man, but he was only a muffin, as we stopped listening to his prolific promises. We shelled peas under a hot sun and drank jack and lemonade. Bonnie said a prayer for the growing season, we all said amen. Bonnie’s prayers are always like the words of an angry man, seething with the knowledge that redemption has been lost. She laid there for four hours before his wife came home from work. She said that he had great hands like a god. He made her feel so close to the dirt, so much more than one dimensional.