You know. You hear. You could guess. You were probably right, but you were never right about anything. Whores still loved him. You been talking in your sleep. All the State Secrets. I wanted them. I wanted State Secrets. Not chickenshit. He knew where the bodies had been buried. He had been one of us. Out to sea. The lights of Key West glowing revelry in the final We Beat the Shit Out Of Him, then we threw him back like a fish. It did not go unnoticed. Some fish. Now, he was a complete liability. I’m not sure he knew that. He leaked like a sieve. They would come for him at night. Close your eyes and go to sleep, baby.

They knew him intimately. We all did. It’s an island. They knew he loved to rim like a pickle jar. He worked boats. Which meant coke by multiple kilos. I hate that drug. It has the toxic smell of a rotten stain, and not the kind that will come out. Suck it up, Bad Bitch. The vomiting is from the alcohol. Anything else you need, Agnes.

     “Kate Bush.”

     “You need Kate Bush.” I literally did not care.

     “I so need Kate Bush. You have no idea.”

     I knew all the secrets that you keep. Sometimes I see stars. Just stars and black. Then, the black comes like the Dam of Black has breached the rocks and shadows but you will follow them if the five-thousand-year-drought would end our miseries. In space, your miseries are still your goddamn fucking miseries. There is no Dodge to get out of. He was a sailor, and up my shell bone Key West steps with the annoyed cats. Rubbling up against his left leg. Whores loved him. Gently as she goes. Know or hear. Choose.

We could sail around for weeks with never landing anywhere. We have done all of this before. Sail on.