I'll be riding 'round Eugene, like I did at 17, and I'll wind up a couple blocks from your cramped efficiency. And though it don't lack precedence, I keep circling past your residence. I'm getting to know the chronology of the presidents quite well. You've got me under a spell. I think you're really swell. And if I were picking words for a spelling bee, the first word would be lugubriously and the second would be obstinately and the third would be viscosity and the last would be epistolary. And all the puzzle nerds would spot the acronym, and be all, "Pegasissy, you're in love with him!" and they'd be right, or mostly right. Cos I'll be riding aimlessly, cos I love aimless velocity, and I'll wind up a couple blocks from your cramped efficiency. And though it don't lack precedence, I keep circling past your residence. I'm getting to know the chronology of the presidents quite well. You've got me under a spell. I think you're really swell. And if I were picking words for a spelling bee, the first word would be licentiously and the second would be oscillatory and the third would be vicariously and then the big tie-breaker, equivocally. And all the puzzle nerds would spot the acronym, and be all, "Pegasissy, you're in love with him!" and they'd be right, or mostly right. Cos I've got plans for you and me.

Every day you take my hand and make my belly bleed. You're a ghost girl's scream on a summer breeze. I call the police, but you're too good at disappearing. Thelma Taylor was a-waiting at a bus stop in my neighborhood when she got turned into an urban myth. I wish she was allowed to take the bus and pick some berries for herself. I wish I had a berry pie to win you with.

I bought two teacups the other day from some sweetheart old woman at the antique store. And oh baby, I thought, well wouldn't it be gay if you and me could settle down and love the Lord? Buy some shoddy old house out Game Farm Road, have five boring kids, a whole minivan load, our old lives, bad memories? Sometimes being a hipster is too complex for me. Each Sunday at nine we would wake up the kids, and I'd put on my pearls and you your tie, and we'd haul everyone to the First Baptist Church, that glittering complex of shaming and lies. We'd enjoy the service, ignoring our sins, singing His praises, "Oh, let Jesus in!" Then we'd gorge on hamburger pie. We'd ask His forgiveness; we wouldn't ask why. But I know you'd hate it baby, though I may plead, because you're too in love with the downtown life. You love waking up reeking of tequila and weed with a hangover banging through your rusty pipes. You couldn't wear girls' jeans or shoes stained with oil paint, read Christopher Hitchens, or smoke off of foil in my bible belt reverie. Sometimes being a hipster is too complex for me. Motherfucker, sometimes being a hipster is too intense for me.

Don't tell me you're going to treat me like a goddess when I know you're an atheist and you don't believe in that shit. Even if you're right, if Nietzsche's right, if God is dead and gone, then it's just empty words you're singing to me that you stole from some R Kelly song, some R&B hit. Baby, you're the one who's full of shit. And don't tell me you're going to treat me like a woman when you're a misogynist and you treat women like shit. Because hugs and kisses and romancing, well, it don't mean fuck all when you'll just lie to me, condescend to me, and treat me like a blowup doll. Well, I've got teeth. Tell me, just whose sex is weak? How you gonna make me an honest girl when everything you say is for effect? You can go fuck yourself with those sweet nothings, cos there's nothing sweet about disrespect.

She was out in the woods drinking wine, smoking hash, with some boys she barely knew. She felt full of life, the Fair was almost done, she was in a lovely mood. When she woke up, just off the path, he was still inside of her. She let him come. Was it rape? Who's to say? She was barely there; how could she be sure? She thought of you, and not that boy she barely knew, she thought, "Maybe with you and me it could be different, with you and me it could be different. I'd quit drinking to get drunk, I'd quit lying around like a lazy lump. I'd quit fucking without love. Nothing without love." Then she was over at Avishai's place with some boys she barely knew, playing card games, hitting the bong, talking shit like they tend to do. And then she got so high she had to lie down. It all turned to a patterned blur. She was just glad all the guys were gay and wouldn't try anything with her. But she called out for you and not the boys she barely knew. She said, "Maybe with you and me it could be different, with you and me it could be different. I'd quit drinking to get drunk, I'd quit lying around like a mopey fuck, and I'd quit fucking without love. Nothing without love." This is the story of a noble kid very much like yourself. She had lost faith in her magic, just deferred to everyone else. But she had a little hope of maybe taking back her life as she stood in the kitchen with a little smirk and her ribcage to her paring knife. She thought of you, and not those boys she barely knew, she thought, "Maybe with you and me it could be different, with you and me it could be different. I'd quit drinking to get drunk, I'd quit lying around like a lazy fuck. I'd quit fucking without love. Nothing without love." I thought of you and not the boys I barely knew. I thought maybe with you and me it could be different, with you and me it could be different. I'd quit drinking to get drunk, I'd quit lying around like a worthless cunt, and I'd quit fucking without love. Nothing without love. I would do anything and everything with love. Woah-ah-oh.

When I first saw Shady Grove, she was standing at the door, shoes and stockings in her hand, pretty bare feet on the floor. Shady Grove, my true love, Shady Grove, I say. Shady Grove, my true love, bound to go away. When I was an itty bitty girl I wanted a barlow knife. Now I just want Shady Grove to say she'll be my wife. Carve our names with a barlow knife into a cedar tree. Spend the night in a little shed on your father's property. Sky as clear as sapphire gin, moon is a china cup. You are the darling of my heart, stay till the sun comes up. Wish I had a big fine horse and corn to feed her on. I'd ride on after Shady Grove when I wake to find her gone.

Would you not resist my curse if I was mummified? Even if a golden scarab ate up your insides? If I were the devil, would I get your sympathy? Would you reach under the table for my cloven hoof at tea? Would you curl up with me if I stayed in bed for weeks? Or follow me past bears and bees to swim in crystal creeks? If I brought you to a playground, would you swing on the swings with me? And if I wrote some stupid songs, would you sing harmony? If I brought you ugly parsnips, would you bake a parsnip pie? Would you ne'er forget me 'till the week before you die? // Pass a compost heap on a shitty old bike. It smells like everything I've ever loved or liked. Smells like August nights at a lover's house, blackberry stains on our hands and mouths. Take a shortcut through the stadium lot. I can see the stars, I can smell the pot. The slue is sluggish and the kids are bored. Eugene, Eugene, know that you're adored. And I don't think I'd want a whole galaxy; maybe just an asteroid belt. It stayed pretty solid and it felt sublime, but that first kiss made me melt. I know that it's no longer cool to play truth or dare like we did in school, but I've done most of the dares. I'd probably do them again. And I'll tell you the truth; I mean, you're my friend. You gotta move, you gotta move, or you'll never know just how much you love your home. Then you'll be riding south down the interstate and have some weird creepy feeling of your ultimate fate.

Now that you live in my chest, everywhere we sit is a mountain top. What used to be pain is a lovely bench where we rest under the roses. A left hand has become a right, a dark wall, a window, a cushion in a shoe heel, the leader of the assembly. Intelligence and silence, intelligence and silence. What we say is poison to some and nourishing to others. What we say is a ripe fig, but not all birds that fly eat figs.