Sick and sweet in the city. Wandering, words winding in on themselves, collapsed creative veins. Stop at a corned beef restaurant with mirrored walls and gold garlands reflecting my ratty hair. Wood studded with head shots of C-List celebrities. Morgan Fairchild's looping scrawl. Slutty handwriting. Ladies in green fringe with whiskey sours.
I run into Stephanie and Gunner going to watch the ice skaters. A glass castle on Market Street and trees clad in black leather holsters. Fake snow like the dry flakes on my donut. We pick through the frosting-smeared trash and get sticky hands.
Maybe I'll steal the plastic peace sign earrings at the cheap corner boutique, buy a pint of pissy bear. Green glass, cloudy piss. Sit at the Oyster House on the long leather booths. Directionless, I turn to absurdity.
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