"Late in the afternoon, thunder growling, that same old green pickup rolled in and he saw Jack get out of the truck, beat-up Resistol tilted back. A hot jolt scalded Ennis and he was out on the landing pulling the door closed behind him. Jack took the stairs two and two. They seized each other by the shoulders, hugged mightily, squeezing the breath out of eachother, saying, son of a bitch, son of a bitch, then, and as easily as the right key turns the lock tumblers, their mouths came together, and hard, Jack's big teeth bringing blood, his hat falling to the floor, stubble rasping, wet saliva welling, and the door opening and Alma looking out for a few seconds at Ennis's straining shoulders and shutting the door again and still they clinched, pressing chest and groin and thigh and leg together, treading on each other's toes until they pulled apart to breathe and Ennis, not big on endearments, said what he said to his horses and daughers, little darlin."
she's got eyes like zapruder a mouth like heroin she wants me to be perfect like kennedy
this isn't god this isn't god this isn't god this isn't god
god is just a statistic god is just a statistic
say, "show me the dead stars, all of them sing." this is a riot religious and clean
god is a number you cannot count to you are posthuman and hardwired
she's pilgrim and pagan softworn and so-cial in all of her dreams she's a saint like jackie-o