I’ve slept too often in the beds of whores.
I’ve given them pieces of gold, & at times, pieces
of my heart. they kept the gold & threw the rest
out the window.
this woman, Mateluna (amante of the moon). I see the
shadows encroaching her, as if to consume her entirely.
& I, an itinerant hero, must rescue her, bound by my
lust for her. but how do I fight a shadow?
then it occurs to me that the darkness conceals a lover,
a regiment of lovers. I conclude that she’s impure,
another whore, because I only fall for that type: the
tainted angels, the wicked kind.
so I consider these things, as I sit in the lowest divebar with
a shot glass & a whiskey-stained notebook, accompanied,
maybe, by the ghosts of Hemingway & Bukowski.
surrounded by other despondent vagrants & fading harlots;
we are the outlaws, we are the loveless.
when I stumble out into the starless night, I can follow the
trail of broken hearts to a maison of painted ladies. she’ll
be there, embraced by the shadows. from across the room,
I’ll admire her beauty, a work of art that I can’t afford,
and dream that I might look in her eyes & find a poem…
(Art: Carlos Golo)