published in Alien Buddha Zine summer 2021
but once almost a Smoothie King I met
on cocaine at a rave one night. Said I
wouldn’t but I knew I might. I had let
his kind inside before who offered lines
even one who called me a whore to the
entire population of our punk rock bar. Was
not there but word travels far in itty
bitty southern towns of Wednesday Addams
in floor length skintight velvet gowns who would
swallow anything to forget. I know I am
no different than a teenager who put
on a ring, by methamphetamines damned
to wed Tiger Kings, lives we can’t abide.
I too fucked men who made me want to die.
Kristin Garth & Pink Plastic House a tiny journal 