Hotel ***—of neighbours dealing in services, buying into
the idea of momentary love by the high purchases. It's like
swerving in traffic, avoiding real love and looking for some action.
Well out here relaxing, feels **** fun. Sort of tragic, but these are the ways things happen. Imagines.

On the other side, the creep behind the hole in the wall.
The married husband, setting up a *******. She's a young girl,
and a ****** to all—of what it costs to make it big. He's not so big, but will drive into her like a heavy rig. Pay her off, call a cab to
take her back home. Rinse himself, spray a little cologne to cover
up his immorals. And switch his clothes. What she doesn't know, won't hurt his wife at all. Sort of tragic, but these are the ways things happen. Imagines.

But she's in another room downstairs, getting tongue licks
downstairs—downtown. The young man isn't to proud, at least
with the fact he wasn't the first one pointing her down his south.
The fresh taste of adultery in their mouth—his pants are
half down. His business is hanging out; ready to close the deal of
an interesting affair. Then he'll kiss his girlfriend back at their house.
I know she's cheating on me too. Sort of tragic, but these are the ways things happen. Imagines.

The cheating girlfriend is actually over eating in another room
alone. With shoes off, to stand herself and her weight.
Running to the bathroom with a finger down her throat.
A little choke, and upbringing those distasteful words. Her body
isn't her worth, and doesn't feel like the one she deserves.
Sort of tragic, but these are the ways things happen. Imagines.

These are the dark rooms, of all the stories in my head.
A couple stories high, to keep me up on my bed. They turn into
dreams, or have been premonitions for a later reality as it seems.

                                                         ­            Who really knows?

On a particularly dry morning
I Google “creative writing prompts.”
“What are you eating for breakfast?”
“Have you ever dreamt
of being blasted off to outer space?”
“Have you ever encountered
a speed ******
in a Walmart parking lot?”
“Imagine you are a ghost
roaming the hallways
of the Cecil Hotel.”
“Have you ever looked at yourself
fully naked in the mirror
after a night of ugly debauchery?”
Never mind -
I suppose another love poem
wouldn’t hurt.

The past is a rundown motel that hasn’t had any visitors in a while but yet you try and stay.
You know the walls are molding and the ceiling has long since caved in but here you are
Residing in a bed with the springs pricking all over your body,
Numbing you to reality.
You cling on to when the room smelled of fresh paint and it wasn’t so dark.
In fact, you can even almost see the sun peeking through the window as if it was yesterday.
But yesterday,
Was many years ago.
The rust,
The damp air,
The rot,
It takes over Yesterday.
Overgrown weeds and musk cover the floor,
Yet,
You still walk barefoot as if it was the carpet that was once there.
You checked in to this marvelous moment not even thinking it could turn into a place.
A place that you began to frequently visit even if the people that lived with you there have no longer occupied the space since,
Well,
Yesterday, it seems.
You sink lower into those springs,
Unaware of your broken bones and puncture wounds because you decided to live in that moment,
Instead of walking out the door at the first sign of flickering lights.
When you knew,
Deep down,
Staying wasn’t an option,
But revisiting became a habit.
Only if it was Yesterday.

Take me to a hotel, where lips and eyes can meet,
Under the shadow of the lamp and the crisp, white sheets,
Take me there, so I may realign our bodies into their perfect symmetry,
Under the sheets, toss me and turn me, fit my lock to your key.

The curve of a spine, the dimple in your back,
The desperate sensuality that I now lack,
Taste the perfume on my skin,
The fragrant memory I scatter just for you.

In the hotel rooms we used to lie, our bodies curled meeting eye to eye,
In the space between speech, the quietness of I love you is as loud as rain,
The caressing of your fingertips wherever you chose,
What time is left to pass, only God knows.

It was always enough, your love, I wish I’d let you know,
How every touch, every bite, all the highs and the lows,
Always meant more than just the image of a rose,
You are the memory I will take as a daily dose –
To ease the price I must pay for your golden heart,
In the throes of restless longing when we are kept apart.

Life is a game that we all must play; we must all roll the dice.
I would rather lose a thousand times with you by my side,
Than cheat my way or leave this place having never seen your face.
This is what I will say to you when it turns out you were right,
When you said the world will return one day and we would win this fight,
As you kiss my weary head and turn out the hotel room lights.

Some of my women are now accidents
But the trust never dies
During the dusk
In the loitering heart there is a disease

replica of the statue of liberty, made of
concrete, a beacon for weary motorists
stranded on route 66, endlessly
drifting in the dusty abyss, stands in front of entrance
with her readymade torch.

she mumbles into a phone, then hands us a key.
a tiny room for breakfast goes unused
and the swimming pool is cloudy,
the concrete walls reverberating
empty chlorine
pleasantries, a watered down
hotspring dream.

above the headboard
is a long mirror, spanning
the length of the smoky room's
back wall, a silvery strip
reflecting faded yellow wallpaper
with subtle unspecified flowers.

the side exit leads to an empty lot, long
grass growing out of neglected potholes, a cyclone fence
blocking off a direct route to the sonic
drive-thru.

the sky is orange, it's always been
orange, it always will be
orange, looming over distant mountains
with narcissistic strata.