with the crude fašade of a small white building. On its face side was a salmon colored silouhette of a nude woman in a lily-white douche commercial pose, holding a flower and staring at her feet in one-dimensional color.

My stomach welled with a tender tackiness until I saw the window. Its entire pane of glass was plastered with a messy collage of black and white photos. It was neither light enough or near enough for me to make out the contents of the pictures. I was nevertheless terrified. I knew they would scare me.

My mind turned into a lifestepper; that thing I become to understand other people and their personal versions of why. I stepped into my mind and saw girls getting abortions done here or girls getting cheesy porno call backs for more ass crack definition in shot thirty three billion here. On all different occasions, medical or money motivated, I saw them spread eagle limbed and W I D E N E D. My legs began to prickle like a disgusting man's thick tongue on my belly and I felt emptied out of libido. I thought I would rather be blind and continually aroused than to have to see these images filtered in with the rest of my mental sex hard drive. It mixes up the system into a homogenous blend and I find a byte that makes me melt two seconds before I crash right smack into a pile of Mexican nude silouhette smut. My mind can't sort and categorize. It thinks the sex stuff is all related. Celibacy or slut. Go figure. Like I said, blind and orgasmic would ease our conscious debates.

JUNK=FIX. FIX, FIX

Dirt has always ravaged me with insane lust.

There is a beautiful boy who hangs out or lives downtown. When I used to be lonely, I'd put on my black hose and hang out at Peabody's in a desperate attempt to define, announce, comprehend, learn about and meet my space. Dark glasses sat on my nose so that I could observe everything that stepped in front of my face and dark bloody lipstick polka dotted my look. In this desperately small town, you start recognizing faces whether you want to or not and people become landmarks that can signify time, events, or the weekend.

One night while I was sipping my mocha energy I noticed him walk by. He was this thing. This six-foot tall and lanky beautiful, beautiful boy with heroin colored dirty hair that stuck up in sexy random clumps. He wore a bright red Mexican serape with jeans and no shoes and I realized it was Thursday night, which was street fair night, the best night for seeing true local color. His feet were callused and I know because he stopped in front of my sidewalk seat to light his cigarette stub and I stared down at them and got a good luck. Callused and a weird beige color that a 90's nail polish maker might coin POVERTY. He was more of a willful bum that an accidental or life circumstance bum. He was just too young, too cute and hippied out to be one of the misfortunate poor. He