The guttural growl of the sax
and I am surrounded by twisted smoke
in the interrogation room.
"What do you have for me, sweetheart?"
Dick Tracy-wannabe who framed this babe.
I’m prolonging inevitable doom.
He wants to know about running giggle juice
and the Chicago overcoat found empty.
Dawn is coming all too-soon.
"There was nothing left in the joint—
just a bunch of John’s.” I smile.
"You know, peepers like you."
It won’t be in the Rumble tomorrow.
Sister found dead on the side of the road,
outside the interrogation room.
Will you come to the garden with me
and discover what I’ve found there?
You ask, “Whatever could there be?”
We walk, wind tossing our black hair.
I lift a stone—small—and point to the green.
It was all we could share.
Our secret, stored away from eyes prying.
Our secret, it was the one that left you crying.
I hate tomatoes.
They taste like rotten dirt.
The squish like what I imagine brains would.
They are disgustingly red.
But why is it I love ketchup?
I both love and hate you.
Vice. Delicious. Murderer,
You are my social crutch
and my stress reliever.
I both despise and adore you.
Smooth. Stupid. Sexy.
And as much as I say, “I’m quitting”,
You seem to always trap me.
I highly dislike tomatoes.
They are red and wet.
They make weird squishing noises.
They smell like rotten earth.
So how is it I love ketchup?
Churning, tossing, twisting
My fear and friend
I hate talking about myself.
You know those really tense conversations?
The “oh-hi-my-name-is” and “i-am-insert number-years-old”
kind of banter?
Jesus, you’d think the world would get tired
of hearing me say that I went to three different colleges
and have a million dollars of student loan debt.
Or maybe we’d even dive a little deeper.
Maybe we wouldn’t skim the surface.
You’d never guess that the first thing I do in the morning
is sneeze three times.
Or that I own more smutty, slutty romance novels
than anyone I know.
Or how about how I have fantasies about my best friends?
….or we could just stick with, “Hi, my name is Katie, and I am 25.
I like the color blue.
I have two dogs.
And I don’t pick my nose in the bathroom.”
There once was a mermaid named Sue.
From the belly up, she looked like you.
And ever so pretty she was,
this mermaid named Sue.
I could’a swore when I kissed her,
it was you.
I’m a bit more patient than I used to be.
I clean my house often
and I prepare him every meal.
I’m a bit more sane than I used to be.
I call my mother every day
and I don’t swear, holler, or sigh.
I’m a bit more classy than I used to be.
My Ps and Qs are minded
and I find time for charities.
I’m a bit more me
than I’d like to be.
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
A sweltering Southern afternoon,
reeking of sunscreen and sweat?
The kind of day when the air hangs
like a towel, sopping from mid-morning wash.
Everything sticks to skin;
flesh is a sap-nest waiting to glue itself
to the nearest leather chair.
You’re an asphalt-scalding, hair-gone-flat, pool’s-not-cold, wishing-it-was-winter
kind of day.