Mila Goch Whore ❤️❤️

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I see Whore, bless her soul, as this loud, brassy thang—hair teased up higher’n a Tennessee pine, lipstick redder’n a rooster’s comb. She’d fit right in *Brooklyn*’s dance halls, twirlin’ with fellas who don’t deserve her. “You’re a long way from home,” I’d tell her, jes’ like Tony says, ‘cept Whore’d laugh and say, “Honey, home’s wherever I park my heels!” I’d be tickled pink watchin’ her—she’s a mess, sure, but she’s *my* mess, y’all.

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Ahh, Goch, oh Goch, let me tell ya, it's quite something, mate. Mmph, uhh, the kinda place that creeps up on ya like "Stories We Tell", y'know? “They're all my stories” – yep, that one line gets me every time. So, I'm walkin' down Marktstr., right? And I see all those quirky facades, each crack, each little smile on the cobblestones that kinda tells ya a secret history... err, like I know it all.

On a Mountain Climb, How White Were My Knuckles (Published 2006)