The manager has a beard again.
His divorce must be final---again.
It's been a while since my last stay at the El-Car Motel,
Many days since the inkwell consumed me
And removed me from my life aloft,
To that splendid shithole that gets me, and countless others, off.
He passes over the pen and I sign my pen name:
The joke is always lost on him,
Like the day-old Doritos wrapped up in his chin.
“Room 11, as always,” he says. “Rita just finished up.”
Ah, that should give the room a nice varnish of cum.
Although, I could it use and imagine myself by the sea.
...In a brine-soaked, hovel of a brothel by the sea.
Rita waddles down the path with her twat in knots
And flashes me a corner-bought smile.
Her john quickly departs in his own knot,
Hunched in shame, stinking of booze and bile.
But I shouldn't judge.
I'll be hunched in booze myself soon,
Alternating between keyboard and bottle,
Slashing away at the mottle of room 11's distractions.
There are so many things to take me from my work,
So many quirks, so much to revolt.
So I give into it, for five minutes.
I stare at every bolt, every stain,
Every sticky puddle I wipe from my chair,
Every drop from the ceiling, into my hair.
I give in to my revulsion,
Sometimes to my supper's end,
But once I'm done, once I'm empty,
My true purpose can begin.
The beer doesn't survive the ink, it bows out
And wine dances into the picture.
Smoke soon follows with deep lakes of liquor.
I move then,
slow in body,
but in mind,
My phone rings and rings.
“Why did I even bring that?” I ask the phone itself.
Logic outside fiction has already been shelved,
Along with the Flying Dog, along with the Andre.
I look at my phone, then push it away.
God how I love him, but I don't need him now.
I need some more Andre and another word for “vow”.
This is my one thing: that destructively wonderful thing we allow ourselves, once in a while.
This is the thing that your smile waits for, though it may catch your tears.
He is all things to me but this.
This heaven, this incredible hell.
No man excels a flawless moon through filthy drapes in the El-Car Motel.
I'll see him in the morning,
Soon after I see myself: a stranger at this point,
But a stranger who can smoke the hell out of a joint.
When the morning comes with its hammers
And slams Ra against my door,
I pray for an apocalypse.
Then I think of him, of his sweet hands and sweet lips, and I curse myself.
The night for those thoughts is over.
Not to be pondered upon for a very long time.
Not even if I struggle for prose or for rhyme,
I will keep it buried, as I have all these years,
But never forget all I've lived on my night without fear.
I don't clean the room because the room can never be cleaned.
Filth breeds like poison ivy in the El-Car Motel,
But oozing well, into secret happiness.
All that happened during my night will remain with me.
(You've had a chunk, not the brunt.)
But what comes from it, the stories, the poetry,
And while I watch the world devour it, he will watch me with admiration,
Perhaps wondering, but never asking, “What is it you do at the El-Car Motel?”
Maybe he doesn't care at all.
Maybe he already knows.
I suppose it doesn't matter,
Because he kisses me, welcomes me home, envelops me, ravishes me, makes me feel like words do no more good than Rita's dragon-toothed blowjobs.
(Or so Bernie Hobbs told me in 2008. Please don't make me elaborate.)
I watch the motel shrink and think about my sins.
How lovely they were.
How far away and lovely.