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Almond slits . . .
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Through almond slits, he stands
Guarding his territory,
His alley-way.
Never flinching; never smiling; never breathing;
Never leering.
Just observing.
Observation.
Broken only by an occasional nod of acknowledgment
As he allows you to pass through his trip
In the corner
Leaning sultry against the wall
He sharpens his claws.
Ever-ready.
(That one)
"Come on mother-fucker!"
The bitch who's seen it all . . .
Through almond slits.
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At the Factory,
Churning a tribal sweat that extends Saturday night for days
Tabs of paper and fuzz;
Bottles of synthetic white powders
Clumping to the sides of the bottles
Needles brimming with magic numbing wonder
A gleaming Latino-pelt shines from the dark
Grooming himself
Licking his curves
To a beat he no longer hears,
But feels,
With every sensuous, sinuous, slinking tendon.
Hip-hugging disco jeans
Knotted, torn, plaid shirt
Red sunglasses
(Lentes rojos)
Lethargic.
He is giving you cunt.
At the Factory.
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The thunder booms.
The lights fade away
His body shakes
The house lights go down
Ever so gently Junior brings in the rain
The white lights flash on the huge mirrored ball
Lightening.
Purr . . .
Purr . . .
Purr . . .
As the body boys grind their teeth
Their Doc Martins into the floor
He prowls
Jumps
Away from the wall
Tail in the air
Swiveling,
Feeling his feline self
He is liquid
Fluid
More wonderful than water
He is god himself
Lightening, Thunder
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The sirens blare
Searing,
The music crashes to the floor.
The fantasy
Is it over?
So soon?
Every hair on my body
Wanting more
Wanting to watch him
Forever
Wanting to touch this beauty
Out there, on the floor
The sirens blare.
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