i don't remember where i live. so i walk. it feels like the wrong direction. turn. face center. run lines of familiar poetry in my head. it feels like the wrong direction. wander. wander. wander. walking dead in the city. on my desk you drink red wine in a red sweater. i want red. you're smiling at something out of the frame. something imaginary when i made you let me take your picture on my birthday. fire engine tongue disaster. i no longer require you. or the book of spanish love poetry due back at the library tomorrow. Desnatarse, atreverse, estar furioso . . .. dangerous furious cow. now i walk the seven steps it takes to move from your bed to the bathroom where the door unpredictably doesn't talk to me anymore, but i don't arrive at the edge of anything. no bowls cold tiles to fall into. like the smell of your aftershave when it gets caught in the vanilla lotion neck of me. in the middle. block. i count eye lashes and teeth. hinged body of holes. disgusted with her, i hang up on you. i don't answer myself when i call right back. trite self-indulgent answerphone whore. in going we return the outside of the inside over and over again until ass over tea cups we fall and break your great grandmother's china. at the only youth hostel in the city, i carry my seven dollar bottle of cab in a brown paper bag to the roof top. i'll have to wear these clothes again to work tomorrow. night blanket soundless. intertextual mad drunken woman. she gets so high. can't figure out how to get back down.