Go Go Go


Walking Our Streets

The neon makes your mouth look sweet. Raspberry-flavored. I like those nights when we stop by liquor stores to browse the aisles touching bottles as if they were long lost lovers. Light beer, grand marnier, tequila, chocolate liquer, amaretto, exotic names for the exotic places they bring us to.

We end up with gin and saltines, instant noodles and you stuff peanut butter into the bag while I buy cigarettes. I'm allergic, I say, with a vision in my head of a peanut butter mouth killing me with a kiss.

You replace it with liver pate.

Walking into the cool night with our hoods pulled up over our heads, we resemble monks of a certain order with bottles tinkling like tiny bells. They sound like wind chimes moving in light wind. I think of how they're supposed to chase ghosts away.

Smoke trails back after us like comet tails. We like to laugh while we walk so sometimes the tails puff out--they look surprised.

We all walk the same: slightly bent at the hip, hand in back pocket, smoking carelessly. Mitch's riot hair down his back, curls shiny in the street light. You smile sweetly at me, but put the Marlboro in your mouth and hold the liquor bags instead of my hand. Anna walks a little ahead, her head tilted up, her mouth a slash in the shadows.

We walk into the darker streets as the town falls into sleep. Dogs howl and Mitch howls right back, the sound oddly wolf-like. You shake the liquor bags and the wind chimes grow louder. Leave us evil spirits! Mitch screams.

The laughter makes the dogs bark even louder.

We sit in the grotto off the street. We had to climb over a couple of fences, Mitch gently lifting the bags for one of us to grab.

When we notice the statue of the Virgin Mary, her gaze turns malevolent. Anna bows and places a cup by the statue's feet. The nails on her mother of god feet are chipped and some joker has painted them with pink nail polish. Fuck that. You say.

We drink to the spirits and then for old friends.

We drink for each other and then for our dead.

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