katie

I saw, one day, the fumes that highlighted the blue sky.  The clean air.  Man, I saw those fumes.  They seemed to say, “believe in me, believe in me.”
I didn’t.
When I watched, those fumes in the air, I knew.  I knew better than most.  That those ideas that floated from within the think tank.  Were bull shit.
But no one would listen to me.  Even though I spoke from high atop the mountains.
And that was bull shit.
So because my warnings wouldn’t be heeded.  I waited.  I watched.  I expected.  The worst.
It didn’t come at first.
The think tank drove onward.
Upward, some thought.
For me, nay.
For me?  Fuck.
On my mountain, it was as though my opinion was too unbiased to count.
I was too
Outside
Of the inner leaders of subjectivity.
Of worth.
Therefore while I preached
Into. Onto. For. Clean air.
Their fortresses aimed to
Ensure
A high demand.
Their demand included
A type of inner pollution, which,
Until now
I had only read against.
Nay.
I had only been warned against.

Many people tell me now,
That they dream about working
For those think tanks.

And I ask them.
Just like I ask many.
Where is your courage?
Where were you yesterday?
Fuck, man.
Your “think tank” is only provoked
By those who can make you feel
A little bit better
About yourself.
And fuck me,
If I’ll be that person.
‘cause I’d rather
Be the person
that can make
Me
Feel good
about
Me.

My socks
Are making my legs
So hot.
They run up to my
Shins
And I sweat
Under the warmth.
The over heated
Warmth.
And my boots:
They add another layer
Of heat
Which does not add
Release
From my pain
And
I
Sweat.
And my legs
They let me know.
They remind
Me
Hey you’re drunk.
Your legs
And from there
On up.
You’re drunk.
From drinking
Drinking that brown bottle
Deep
Ly.
Drinking it so
Nice
Ly.
Until it flows down
Be
Low
Down to those
Long white cotton
Socks
That dare make those shins
So
Hot.

The shadows cast drapes along the walls.  It was dark.  He was alone.  His back was to the front door.  His chest (his heart) was to the barmaid.  To the bar.  His loyalty was to the bottle.  
His eyes gazed down.  Eyelids fixed.  Two arms positioned on the straight edge of the bar and two hands locked on the circumference of the glass.  
Outside the snow accumulated atop his matured Buick.  
He coughed.  Never mind it, he thought.  He lit a cigarette.  Self-rolled cigarettes.  It hung from his lip.  The moisture from his tongue touched the tip slightly.  Allowed it to stay in place.  His lips too dry.
Momentarily the right hand broke from the deadlock, waved toward Traz, the barmaid.  She nodded without a word.  She knew.  Same order since he had been coming here years ago.  
She moved elegantly.  Her hair moved in separate motions as she turned from the bottles toward him.
“You sure I can’t tempt you into something to eat?” Her voice was sweet, her lips were sweet.  He knew she could tempt him into a lot.  But not food.
The snow outside weighed heavy now.  The streets would soon be covered.  
He shook his head, brought up the glass.  Finished it in one motion.  He grabbed for a twenty.  He knew the total.  Same total it’s always been.  He was loyal.  He nodded toward Traz.  A simple goodbye.  She smiled.  Her cherry colored lips teased. 

My hand clutched around the fabric
As I stroked down toward the bottom of the basin.

The ripples from the washboard bumped me along excitedly,
And my clutched hand drove deeper into the dark water.

Mystery enveloped me up to my elbow; it was wet; it was hot.

The washboard, hard, strong, firm, rinsed out the dirt
As I moved vigorously back and forth.

I finished, pulled out slowly, wrung out the excess
And a heavy sigh came from the pit of my abdomen.

The murky water settled; it became calm; it became cool.

He would be brutal, harmful and evil.  He would evoke every piece of awful that a person could.  Tears could be brought to the eyes of anyone who crossed paths with him.  He should have been named Dante.  His insults burned  in an irritating manner.  Even if I had a wittier response, he would shamelessly amplify his voice as to drown out my own.  This immediately forced me to use a higher voice.  As you  know, for every action, there is a reaction.  In this situation, my higher voice persuaded Hank to react in a typical demeanor: he mocked me, imitated my voice, and portrayed me as a young child.  Underneath my skin, emotions crawled along like ants into their hill of a home.  Somewhere the queen was lazily enjoying a chair.  Here I was angrily, yet quietly, sulking.  

If he hit me, aw shit, my emotions become a hot bed.  Casually, I wore a beard.  On the outside, I was placid.  Inside, my body swarmed worse than thousands of bees sucking in pollen eagerly taking it elsewhere.  Hank wasn’t an overly large male.  Some would even call him scrawny.  But in comparison, he dwarfed me and made it impossible to have a voice.  In fact, the size difference not only took my voice metaphorically, but literally lessened its volume so that on any such occasion I only whimper.  

Bruises sprung from virgin skin just as the mountains emerged from ground that was once flat: one colossal shove and surfaces are transformed.   

I knew that I hated him.  I knew I could do better.  I’m a smart, young, attractive  catch.  Ha, yeah, a catch.  Just like another piece of fish Hank manipulated.  The bait had lured me; I had taken a big bite; I had been immediately hooked and convinced.  Neither the fish nor I stood a chance.