Hey Joe Marissa J. McCants Hendrix melted into the background, while we went to bed. Somehow iTunes filled chamber with smoky voice of ghost. My red-haired wig and Forrest Gump Jenny sunglasses over face, moving erratically, fell as you pumped into me from behind. Your hairy large hands on my emerald-green, velvet maxi dress with a split for dancing. You anchored to the brown leather belt that matched my boots, lifting emerald-green velvet split. People said I looked so 70s chic for Halloween party. Beer to vodka to lines, me and you in this room that belongs to older bachelor who led us upstairs, well, told you about this room when he saw himself, maybe, in your eyes, when I couldn’t stop slurring words, when “No” came out after panties were down, and your sex was sexing the soft folds I told myself were safe tonight around people I knew. People wonder why I tear up at rock and roll— Hendrix, Bob Dylan, Led Zeppelin. Glorious music tainted to me, because it reminds me of the first time I wanted to swallow a bullet. Chills ignite up my arms, I rock myself when the guitar riff from “Hey Joe” plays. I want to dive into traffic, but usually dive into bathroom to cry or vomit, though it’s been three years. Why can’t an old song die? Every November first, sourness fills my mouth, no matter how many glasses of alcohol, it won’t erase.
81.
