5am Sunday morning. Clothes reek of indecency
squatting on the rooftop waiting for Jesus. He
never came. Searching for something in a town full
of nothing. Foreign mouths. What a beautiful
voice. There's always someone in the backseat.
There's always someone approaching the window.
There's always someone calling. Turn off that
telephone. The receiver is off the hook but no one
is talking. No one is listening. Nothing can be
done. I know that you're there I can hear you
We make promises. Hearts literally
broken. What a beautiful voice. I know that you
need me. Let's talk business. What a way to love
me. She said, "you mother fucker." You
smell like cigarettes. It's so cold n an Indiana
telephone somehow. Everything slips away within
me. This means nothing. I kept hitting the floor
because the ceiling was too low. I told you so I'd
fuck Elvis.