Uptown.
Because you can't ever feel down
Up
     Town.

Lights swirling around
and exotic colors become all
      at once
           neon bright.
Searing your eyes enough to give everything
that dim cloud whirling around it
      like an oversized trench coat.

But this is all overseen
    and somewhat out of place
by the people in
     fur coats.
And ladies who hold silken scarves
over their oddly high placed noses
as they pass my friend's cigarette smoke
     just before they enter the "hip" Latin restaurant
          to prove they're cultured.

And even though I laugh,
     and give my friend a knowing smile,
I hear them over the crowd
     incorrectly pronounce
           the phrase "dos cervezas",
and can't stop the cringe that appears on my face.

My friend walks away as if nothing is wrong,
      truth be told, there shouldn't be.
We both know how this works.
Who gets upset about a heritage they don't advertise?

We have all
        but bleached our skin
(because anything that isn't white is in)
We want out.

Because exotic
       animals
              are often admired
(as they are worn around the shoulders).

Heat slips up our shirts, sweaty beads of ***.
We twist our clothes, grabbing at flesh, groping for ***.

The hard squeeze and pressure is scooping out the soul—
Please, push it out, we want to be left bare and have ***.

Our skin is strung together, our bodies hollowed, dry;
Blind to the heat and the mess, we’re swept up by a blissful, empty ***.

The sheets, salted with sweat, are heaved off the bed,
Pillows gone, clothing gone, here there is nothing but ***.

Gasping and shouting, we purge ourselves, we are nothing—
I am pure and vacant, I’ve rushed my blood to my groin for ***.

And moments like these are strained and stretched.
Then, release, the moment falls from us as wet as ***.

Like sheets, pillows, clothes, the rest of me returns:
Too tired to move, I listen to our breathing, short huffs in the air after ***.