blues for cutthroat orchestra
the moon hid briefly behind stagnant clouds, then emerged,
anxious to see what new drama the night would foretell.
this bleak district of tenements sidebarred with fire escapes
was composed of two extemporaneous sins: sex & liquor.
it was a hot night, too hot for clothes. she moved around her
flat naked, letting the stale air caress her torrid flesh. she
was a mercenary in the legion of the lost, & the streets
where she sold herself were love’s battlefield.
she twirled a pair of tasseled AK-47s when she toe-danced in
my dreams like a combat ballerina. if I could steal her from
the sadness in her eyes, I’d deceive my own heart.
me, just a soldier in the rain.
her bed was a pit-stop for a stream of men who bartered a few
wrinkled dollars for a pocketful of regrets. a thick, furious cock
between her legs was only a way to tick off the lonely minutes
of her desolation, because a trick is not a lover.
every sordid novel has unwritten chapters, & maybe this was
not the last of her. maybe someone loved her once, somewhere.
she’d pack a bag one day, maybe, & find that place again.
she could kiss me goodbye as if she’d miss me, & I’d write a
poem about it. but I knew for sure that any woman, even a whore,
could choke on all those maybe’s…