rain was licking the drainpipes and teasing the window glass like a young film noir star throwing shade ona honeymoon killing spree in 1953. the screen was silver and we polished it, too. me and you. maybe we’re nobody. in the outskirts of a small city, you gave me midtown Manhattan, 1922. I felt like someone whose been kissed on both cheeks. enough of the valley. we went for Sierras. the high of high peaks.
“I want to tell Freddy what happened, I want him to know but where to start? No worries cuz it’s the same Freddy all of the time, letting stuff roll off his back, layin there looking at me and the boy, the patience of a dark planet waiting for light years to arrive, and I tried but at first the words wouldn’t come, Gaptooth quiet sittin between my legs counting my toes with his fingers, when my eyes betray me and well up with tears, and I fall into Freddy and he holds me until the heavy feelin thumbs on outta there like a hitchhiker walking down the margin of a single lane highway disappearin into the Sierras, leavin me with a lighter heart. Gaptooth reaches up with his shirt tail to dry my eyes.” – Book 3. w.i.p