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She was watering the downstairs carpet, that smoker’s-lung color against the green garden hose. “Get dressed,” she said, “I’m scamming the insurance company and I need your help.”
I found the baristo on one of the apps.
“No poem ever saved a Jew from the oven.”
“Sweetheart, he was Charles Manson’s number one procurer of young girls.”
in the voice of an animated luchador from a web series we all watched then,
fathers mothers children sisters starring in snuff films screened in the airport.
drive to a strip mall and smoke weed in my SUV and do rich-bitch yoga with these fierce old dykes and suburban sorority girls and other basic traitorous cunts, all of them my sisters, and for twenty dollars each we all come out an hour later looking like we just got fucked.
“And the question is thus raised. How can a person be defined? Can he be so numbered as one person? Is he just one person only when he is very small?”
yes daddy had let the men in his congregation have their way with us, with me and my sister.
