Busted knee, girl, hanging over the edge of the bed. I forgot to turn off the heater that’s been costing me a few dozen nice dinners with wine. Reminders of the usual: beautiful asses and hips, the mellow rhythm ofwhatever with a distinct lack of passion. Too quick to indifference for my commitment tastes. Reading up on public sex and, wham, a reminder of B’s fantasy. A hand between her thighs at dinner followed by a forceful fuck against the side of the car. “When you’re 18, and only if I never hear talk about this ever again.” I made no plans. When I fly it’s on a whim because costs are high these days due to fuel. ______’s expensive. I never plan to drive to the field and take a Cessna out, but when I do, it’s the highlight of that week. California is a dry, brittle landscape, marked by stark striations for mountain ranges. It’s looks as dust on my windshield. Oregon is softer, more green. The mountains roll and it’s like the sweeping cinematic shots of Canada and Alaska. I look forward to my time in the air over Vancouver. The Pacific coast is my kingdom. I saw a photo of a gorgeous Indian girl the other day and didn’t reblog, because an ethereal model’s photo is my artifact but a person’s photo has a sacred air to it. I settle for hearts. I don’t settle for this. She’ll get a call for a walk around downtown. “Your place.” Calls are for arrangements. My charm is leveraged for filthy lucre, red swell. My thumb and fingers are pincers; her eyes, glass; my heart, broken; the world, simple; my name, once more.