Old Floozy sits in the kitchenette athletically smoking cigarillos, discarding stubs
extravagantly on ceramic dinner plates. She puts on Captain Beefheart and unpins
gnarls of tumbleweed hair. Beefheart says hey hey hey all you young girls and she takes a
defiant drag off her cigarillo, pulls smoke sharp through closed teeth.

hey hey hey all you young girls

Not young, but she used to be. Back before her brain was a rock.

Before her skin turned to paper. Before her legs split to scissor.

Beefheart says

hey hey hey all you young girls whatever you do
well come on by and see me I’ll make it worth it to you

And that cold harmonica comes in and plays to her guts and she’s on her feet, pulling at
her blouse, pushing hands slow down thighs, parallel pathways performing complex
computations required to push those soft raw hands over soft raw denim. She knocks
smoldering cigarillo carcasses clean across the room; she don’t give a fig. She dances the
letter S, polished fingernails pressing hard over Jordache. One hundred forty eight
pounds, legs corded with muscle. Ventricles enlarged. Grinds the balls of her feet deep
into rotting peach carpet. She’s drugstore decadence: generic musk and fruit fantasies.
Not a trace of fetal fuzz. Well sure ’nuff and yes she do.

She’s not yours, but she could be. She’s safe as milk.



Kate Nacy writes. She lives in Berlin, where she’s at work on a chapbook and several unauthorized “tell all” biographies.