I wanted to go to the concert with you, but it was a Sunday and I had not gone to mass yet, so I could not go. I cried on the porch in front of your beautiful, frail mother, with her wispy blonde hair, her testimonies, her prophecies, her tarot cards. "I'm sorry, honey."
Even she could not defy the woman in the red chair, keeper of the most beautiful woman of all, mother of the church, stepper-on-of-snakes (how I shivered at that green dead coil beneath her well-manicured white toes). I cried there, on the porch, embarrassing you all, and then I cried by myself later in the bathtub.
Now I am in your bedroom and it is not a Sunday. I admire your walls, which you have recklessly smeared with pull-out posters from Circus magazine. You are eating a bag of Doritos; this does not deter my passion. I lean over and, without invitation, inject you with a deep French kiss.
I would have preferred sour cream and onion, but I liked it nonetheless.
it's amateur hour
