untitled (for no one)

it's been awhile

since i called you

a whore

and made it stick

i paid for a fuck

but you charged for a lick.

i see white skinny legs

in the little red skirt

stacked heels

and some sort of fur stole.

your sores were like jewels

and didn't offend

on you, they looked like foreign

reliquary placed there by clergy.

you called me names

as you stormed past

the po-leece found you

hitching on the canyon road

'round dusk. talking out of your

head like someone else controlled

your voice- like a liquid marionette. i posted bail

but didn't escort you out. once on the street

you gave a guy a blow job for some change

i think then you called your mom

months later you got clean - again -

and studied

the quaran - or however you spell it

i think you even vowed to kill cat stevens

for derailing the peace train, there was no

turning back once you made up your mind.

it's like the script-writer that penned all your

episodes

had a thing for pussy

and controlling people with it

you kept the knife as a back up

in case you couldn't talk your way

out of the trouble. i think you killed that

guy only 'cause you heard that johnny cash song

about killing a man just to watch him die.

whatever code propels you in your pursuits

it's not of this world. your windows look out

but no one can see in. when you died

it was like the angels had turned into bikers

and jesus had a softtail for a donkey. whatever portion

of heaven has been saved for you, please remember

to acknowledge the landlord. He likes that.

(c) jim hill (12-30-09)