Kumamoto
In Kumamoto the bus rattled down
the street but I got off and turned back there
in the cold dark, ducked under a noren
and entered a dim room with tables where
noone sat; a young woman in brief clothes
emerged from the back of the room and came
up to me to peer in my face for clues
as though reading a street sign; with her arm
and head she motioned down the dingy aisle.
She sat next to me decanting whisky
from a round bottle along with her smiles,
her left hand stationed there on her slim thigh.
I caught her suggestion but then eschewed
a putative room behind a curtain
and so I got away only a few
drinks poorer; in the dark I wandered then.
My Fate/This Appetite
My mouth is not designed for air
or things as silly as food.
It is designed to beg, plead, swallow every lie,
Every pretty word thrust further and further into my guts until it is part of me too,
Just another of my own beliefs, the rest thrust to the side,
behind my liver,
by this intruder’s indiscriminate spray.
It coats my insides,
Sickly sweet, sometimes too bitter and salty to keep down when it’s not plugged inside.
After, my throat must learn to accept only oxygen once again.
Only,
oxygen feels like failure when he is standing over me,
dripping,
twitching,
waiting for this warm, wet orifice to open once more so that he may relieve himself of his frustrations.
Those tears are just so much lube.
Pleas are successfully silenced.
What words could possibly matter more than his need?
Until the very end my lips open wide for those that would endanger me otherwise,
Drooling-
a vacant brain,
Loving-
despite never having known what such a feeling feels like.
What worth is there in a body when it isn’t useable?
What use is there when these lips are locked shut?
Life is performance and competition.
The worst?
The best?
They’re the same.
One, a savior from obsoletion,
The other an enternal charade.
prostitution
every rampant,
time,
every pregnant
place,
i look,
around
me . . .
opportunity swells,
with ubiquitous,
paths to prostitution
. . . some lead to life,
some to destruction
the paths replete,
are laced,
with silver,
some with,
iron pyrite,
. . . for power
perhaps,
of position,
of greed,
that over time,
turns to rust
perhaps,
though some,
a few,
may be
laced with grace,
like,
to do what's right
as in gentle naivete,
turned to golden lace
such as when,
noble things,
such as prostitution,
takes the name,
take the name,
of self sacrifice,
like,
"i'll give you me,
if you treat me fair and nice,
you treat me with respect,
and i'll play the game
for the gain,
of love"
"i'll give you me,
i'll work you,
for what's good,
just so,
you pay me back,
so long as you,
prostitute me back"
prostitution,
fleeting,
temporal,
remedy for pain,
and loneliness,
a salve,
for a soul,
led
by a maddening world,
into
the arms
of prostitution
Now you are a man (repost)
On my fourteenth birthday, my father took me to a prostitute. When we left, he slapped me on the back and said, now, my son, you are a man. He didn’t ask any questions. So, I didn’t tell him how the woman failed in her attempts to excite me. How she got frustrated then angry then contemptuous. I didn’t tell him how she called me all the same things the boys at school did – the reason he brought me there in the first place, I suspect. I didn’t tell him how I begged her to stop. How I covered my ears as tears threatened to fall. How my hurt and sadness turned to anger when she went to open the door so she could go tell everyone, my father, about my…difficulty. How I jumped from the bed, grabbed her and covered her mouth with my hand to make her stop. How she bit me, so I threw her to the floor, and she hit her head. How I pounced on her, my hands around her neck, while she struggled to free herself. How, as I saw her terror, her weakness to my strength, I was able to do exactly as she'd wanted. He'd wanted. No, I didn’t tell him any of that. I just thanked him for his gift.
Room 301
Inside a small motel room, a tall, grey-haired man is fixing his pants. He walks to the mirror next to the bathroom and takes out a small cologne, spraying it on his neck.
"Honey, could you be sweet and hand me the towel?" says someone else inside the bathroom.
The tall man picks up the towel that lies on the bed. He enters the bathroom, now filled with white steam from the hot water. He hands the towel to the person behind the shower curtain. "How many times do I have to tell you, don't call me honey!" says the man with an angry face.
The person behind the curtain accepts the towel. "Oh, come now. Why are you so upset over a pet name?" he says while wrapping his body with the white towel. He abruptly opens the curtain and says, "I call all my clients honey, anyway. You are not that special."
He pushes the tall man away and steps out of the bath. Then, he cleans the mirror from the steam. When the mirror becomes clear, he notices there is a bit of a trace of semen on the towel.
"Holy shit, Roy! This is not a clean towel!" he says angrily. He takes off the towel and throws it at the tall man's face, Roy. Now he is standing naked in front of Roy, placing his hands on his hips.
Roy catches the towel angrily and throws it to the floor. He glares at the naked man in front of him. Suddenly, he grabs the naked man's face and pushes him to the wall. "Don't you fucking dare to throw stuff at me! You piece of shit!" he shouts at the naked man's face, pointing his finger. The naked man hisses, feeling the pain on his head and his back. One of his hands tries to remove Roy's hand from his face, while the other tries to push Roy's body away.
Suddenly, there is a noise of someone opening the bedroom door. Both of them stop their quarrel and look at each other in silence. They begin to communicate with their eyes, asking if one of them has a clue at all.
One of Roy's hands reaches for the doorknob, but the naked guy stops him from opening the door. He throws a glare at Roy and shakes his head. Roy glares back at him and signals for the naked guy to move away with his head. The naked guy follows him meekly.
Roy opens the door slowly, trying not to make any noise. Sensing an opportunity, the person behind the door kicks it harder. The door hits Roy's head, and he screams, "Agh!" One of his hands covers his forehead. Roy takes one step back, and now the door is wide open.
"What the fuck is going on?" asked the blonde woman on the other side of the room. She looked distressed, arriving at the motel with messy hair, a big sweater, and dirty sweatpants. One of her hands is carrying a baseball bat, and the other hand is holding her phone. Her face shows disbelief—a shocked woman who just discovered her fiancé and his naked son inside a motel room.
"Claire?" asked Roy to the blonde woman. Claire takes a step back and raises the baseball bat, her eyes glaring fiercely at Roy. "Don't you dare to come any closer!" she warns. Roy raises his hands slowly into the air, signaling that he won't do any harm.
Claire looked around inside the room. The bed was messy, indicating it had already been used. There were some sex toys on the bed. Then she walked to the bedside and found a woman's clothes: a red skirt, a black crop top, and black boots next to it. She glanced at her phone, checking the image still showing on the screen, her fiancé kissing someone wearing the exact same clothes now lying on the floor. Then she looked up and noticed there was a check and gift box on the bedside.
The naked guy took the towel on the floor and quickly wrapped it around his hips. He slowly walked out of the bathroom and approached Claire. He touched her shoulder tenderly, but his movement scared her. In response, Claire swung the baseball bat hard and hit his head. The guy fainted right in front of her.
Claire dropped the baseball bat and covered her mouth with her hand. Her body dropped to the floor. Roy saw that as an opportunity. He immediately took his wallet and his jacket, then rushed out of the room.
Credit: Photo by Dominique BOULAY from Pexels
Evelyn
I remember the light in her eyes the way the sun hit them in the morning. They were an oak forest and my soul seemed to walk an eternal bliss looking into them.
She told me her name was Evelyn. Many men knew her by many names. Many nights they’d fight one another just to lay beside her. I’ve had my ass whooped a few times.
She had a high lonesome glare in her face before walking a man to her room, like the sound of railroad whistle, or the shine of a moon and sleepless wolves far off.
There were nights when her face was bruised, she had cuts on her hands and her neck. Old man Crews hollering at her for this or that. Yanking her every which way.
I asked her before why she does it. She said it’s better than the Reservation.
We’d talk all night about dying and becoming stars, the fire in our souls, the breath of peace. All that, like after a long night there will be a greatorning forever. I never spoke with anybody about such things.
I worked all week for the railroad, camping out, scraps for food, just to spend one night with her at the end of each month.
Her touch was like being born anew.
The last time I went into New West she was not there.
They found her in her room, dead. Nobody said what had happened.
Only a few were at her burial. The preacher read some verses, asked the almighty for forgiveness, then the groundskeepers stumbled a bit and laid her down. Packed the dirt down. The preacher tried singing. I never heard the song birds so clear as I did that day leaving the cemetery.
I still think about her, most days, working in the heat, thinking about seeing her again in some other place.
I can see her smiling in the mornings, sunlight seeping through the windows. Her holy face.