All around
it surrounds me.
A vindictive hound
scratches on my skull,
demanding to be let in.
It rankles in my ribcage,
knocking across those prison bars of bones
with knuckles bruised
in demoralizing aching.
Dark paints my skin from the inside,
wiping and smudging on grime
with a suffering artist's hand.
It rages, it surges,
some [    ]
is angry.
And I am sad.
I know solace only twinkles in the obscure corner of the sky
I know that all roads diverge from my desires and
that of all the runons streaming runoff
and the geysers spewing their own demise
only I am wise.
The cosmos knows nothing
and the hound howls in belief
that life exists
somewhere in between.

This moment
I choose to squander
not with life.
This moment
I choose to squander
not with death.
These moments
I choose to squander
in suspension.

The sound of crashing cars wakes me up,
but I wake to a bed unsplintered with glass shards.
I find only the sun
deliciously warming my windowpane,
and as soon as light hits my eyes,
I wish for unconsciousness,
for the puppet master to pull the strings
and draw me back in suspension
in Limbo.

Freedom is ours
upon this beautiful night.
We are so done
with our definitions
with our ambitions
with our dreading.
The time has finally come
to freeze our legs from treading
and escape these tepid waters.
Let's leave and breathe again
and choke matter into our lungs.
And however hard the breath might bite,
I no longer have use for feeling but
for feeling the cool caress of love's touch
as we swim in pools of night's reflections.

His Breath

Like cream and sugar
they blend and flavor
the speckled, floury air.
It's delicious and natural,
and the cosmos knows,
and so the air grips his scent
in a tight embrace,
loving the milkshake
of musk and man.
He sleeps and I stare.
Where we claim room,
there is none left
for motion to take.
Bathing,
languishing
in this ambiance,
we wait for life to happen.

             I finished dinner and called Mist at five twenty-five to sign on for work. I have rented out my body to restaurants, retail, and various other industries and companies before finding this job. At least with Mist, I rent my body for the right price. The catch: for Mist, I have to also rent out a part of my soul. I call her Coco.

"Hi Coco, tonight I've got George for you at six and Rob at eight. Do you feel like taking on a new guy? I've checked him out and he seems alright."

"No, no new guys. You know my rules, regulars only," I said.

"Ok, just remember that we charge an extra hundred for new clients." Tempting, but I have a day job that's worth more.

George was only a couple of stops away on the red line, so there was no rush. Regardless of who was calling, there would never be a rush. Boston was tiny.

I dashed on little bit of make-up (although they usually don't care for that), some deodorant and D&G perfume—not so much for myself as for the clients. Some of those old guys smelled nauseating after just a little bit of activity. My bag was already fully prepared with everything I needed: a bank card, pepper spray, condoms, lube, and a vibrator. I am always safe, but ninety-eight percent of the time, I only put one of those to use—the bank card. Luckily my clients are smart enough to care for safety as much as I do.

I pushed the call button and immediately, the door buzzed to let me in. I entered and walked straight into the open elevator. Was it PH or R? I always forgot for a moment, but just a moment. I pushed R and waited as the elevator brought me twenty floors up to the roof, one level above the penthouse.

The first time I saw the place, the apartment took my breath away. The place itself was enormous and I had never seen a panoramic view of Boston from someone's home before. The apartment became one of my fantasies, until I met Harry the elite programmer and then Bob the heir and then Marcio the Italian designer and their apartments.

George was at the door to greet me.

"Hi honey, how have you been?"

George was Coco's good friend, so she smiled for him, she hugged him, and she kissed him, with all the sweet affection of your high school girlfriend.

"Great! It's been a while. How are you?"

"I've been fine. Prague was fine, although the weather was a bit dreary. I'm so glad to see you again! Do you need to use the restroom? Are you thirsty?"

"No, I'm fine thank you." George walked over to his velvet sofa and sat down. Coco joined into his arms, and he brought his face close to hers. He was a regular and she knew what he wanted. She turned and kissed him. When he reached a tongue out to her, she went halfway to meet him at her lips. When he pulled at her shirt, she took it off for him. When he rolled over, she settled in on top. Coco was here to serve him, like a waitress, like a barista, like a bellhop. Humans have four basic needs: food, water, shelter, and intimacy. Sometimes it gets hard to put food on the table. Sometimes clean water is miles away. Sometimes storms and earthquakes destroy people’s homes. Sometimes, people just never succeed in making true connections with others. George had a degree from MIT, he had a boat, he had a house in Prague, but he still asked for me at least once a month.

The routine was always the same with George. After he heaves his last climactic grunts and collapses on top, he spends the next hour and a half talking. Just talking. Coco learned from George that there was great shopping in Singapore, that slightly windy days were the best time to spot whales, and that French escargot was typically drenched in butter and garlic. And at the end of their two hours together, George would hand her an envelope, kiss her goodbye, and Coco would step out of the elevator with half a grand in her purse.

I had also earned five hundred dollars on a couple of good nights at the strip club, but that was much harder. There, I had to walk in heels as high as I could manage, constantly seduce men into buying a lap dance, and compete with other girls for the customers. Escorting only required Coco's attention on one man, and she had his from the start. On a good night escorting, she could bring home a thousand dollars in cash.

Next was Rob. He was a do-it-yourself kind of man and didn't require much work from Coco. She just had to be naked and talk to him and let him mess her. I hated that the most. It was pure bullshit. I hated saying how badly I wanted him, because I don't. I hated telling him how horny I was for him because I wasn't. Those words didn't belong on my lips, even for the few seconds of their existence and end. Performing a service for my clients was one thing, but lying to them and pretending was another. Acting is part of my job, but honestly, I'm not very good at this part of my job.

At times like these, I would touch the ring he gave me and think of him as I babble. I would delicately trace the familiar curvy engravings, like a blind man reading his favorite book, and remember the fun we had together. I would unhappily remember how love was once the music of a piano, and not the weight of one. I never take off the ring, but I only think of him occasionally.

I remember when I started out. It felt good. These rich, powerful men adored me and doted upon me. When they weren't spurting out complements from their holes, their hungry eyes said the rest. I understand what feminists mean when they complain about being objectified, but most of the time, I just felt beautiful and wanted. I discovered the cute and sexy Coco inside of me, and how could I not like this girl who was one of Boston's high dollar hotties who could pay my rent and student loans with her charm?

But, it didn't take long for me to understand the work—not the supposed sin that defies all social graces (my college roommate had a fuck buddy for every day of the week)—but the root of demand for these services.

I was on my way back home when Mist called.

"Coco, I'm going to give you one last chance on this new guy. I checked him out already. He's completely safe and you can keep your entire fee when you're done. No one else is available tonight, so I really need you. Do it as a favor for me?"

I liked Mist a lot. I met her once when I first decided to apply with her agency. She was small and sweet and bought me a latte at Starbucks. So far, she has always given me good clients and made sure they paid me well. I came into this business scared of course of the nightmares that would come to haunt me with anything that goes wrong, but nothing went wrong, and I thank Mist for being my guardian angel. She collects a relatively larger fee than other agencies for each appointment, but I am happy to pay what she asks for my sanity.

"Okay. I'll do it, but only as a favor to you. Remember, you owe me one. Call me in an hour to make sure I haven't been hacked into pieces okay?"

"You know I will honey. His name is Ted and he lives at # — St."

"Hi, you must be Coco. Please come in."

"Thank you Ted," Coco coos as she walks into his apartment. It's nothing very posh or spectacular. In fact, it's quite messy with take-out cartons left out on the table, newspapers and magazines thrown on the floor, and a trace odor in the air. She takes a quick look around and notices a family picture. It's Ted and a beautiful woman and two smiling children. Coco must have been staring, because Ted notices.

"That's my wife and kids. This one's about to graduate college now and is headed towards law school next year. This one is at a boarding school right now."

"How lovely!"

"And this is my wife. She’s...gone." I don't say anything because I don't know what would be appropriate. After a brief moment of stupidity, I finally say, "I'm so sorry," but that was the wrong thing to say if I wanted to console him.

"I have no idea why! We were picking out furniture for remodeling the house one day, and she's gone the next! I called the police, but they said that since a suitcase and some of her clothes are missing, they won't do anything about it, but I don't believe it. Why would she just up and leave? It makes no sense. I haven't seen her in two weeks and the kids don't know yet, and I just want to see her again. I haven't left the house since she went missing because…what if she comes back? I need to wait for her. I just...I just...just want to speak to her. I'm sorry." He breaks into silent tears. His frailty gave me a heartache, and I naturally wrapped my arms around him. As soon as we make physical contact, he lets out the heartbreaking sobs. He soaks my sleeve and shudders on my shoulder as I accept the hurt and insecurity that he has nowhere else to place. I have only met this man ten minutes ago, but I am more than willing to share my love with him. I tell him it's going to be all right and I give him comfort that only a loving embrace can provide.

After a while, Ted is entirely drained both physically and emotionally, so I bring him to his bedroom. One side of the bed is made, but the other is kept smooth and clean. I tuck him into bed and go into the kitchen to get him a glass of water. There, I find half washed dishes, some very stale toast left in the toaster, and a stack of mail on the counter. The bottom half of the various envelopes have been opened, but the newer mail has just been piled on top of the bills and letters and junk.

I washed the dishes and poured water into a clean glass for Ted. I brought it to his room, put the glass on the tabletop beside him and was about to return to the kitchen to check his fridge for rotten food when he stopped me.

“Wait!” He cried.

“Hmm?”

“This bed is so cold. Could you stay with me tonight?” He asked so innocently and helplessly, I forgot all about my overnight fees. I just crawled under the smooth side of the sheets and warmed the bed for him. He was a big guy with a sturdy body topped with a mild gut. I held his head on my chest as we slowly drifted off into sleep.

 

I was suddenly blinded and deafened at the same time. The lights had turned on and a woman was shrieking. I couldn’t see and I wasn’t quite awake enough to be wondering where I was. There is some movement beside me.

“TED! What the hell is going on? Who is she?” The woman’s voice screamed in a shrill and painful voice.

“Huh?” Ted’s voice came from next to me. I was a bit less disoriented now and was starting to remember what had happened last night. Shit. I opened my eyes to see the woman from the picture frame standing in the doorway in pouncing position with her legs apart and shoulders high.

By this time, Ted has also woken up and jumped out of bed.

“Sweetheart! You’re back! You’re finally back! Oh honey, where have you been? I missed you so much!”

“Don’t touch me! You missed me enough to bring another woman into our bed while I’m gone huh? How could you?”

“No! No! You don’t understand! She…I…she’s nobody!” I was about to make something up about being his coworker who came to comfort him, but Ted panicked.

“She’s just a whore!” He blurted out. As if he said the magic words, everyone froze. The words and the way he said them took the air right out of my lungs like a punch in the stomach. Just a whore with no value other than her cheap flesh. Just a whore who could die in the streets without a hobo's sympathy. Just a whore that will rot in a hell far away from the good, virtuous people with good, virtuous intentions.

“Is this true?” She asked him.

“Yes, yes! She’s just some hooker who seduced me!”

The woman’s eyes narrowed at me and she transferred all the disgust and anger this scene had aroused in her onto me.

“Get out of my house you filthy disgusting whore!” She screamed at me. I scrambled to gather my things while she continued calling me awful names and condemning my soul for being a housebreaker. I couldn’t ask Ted for my fee while the banshee was on the verge of attack. They kicked me out the door with a shame and humiliation I had no right to refute.

There was nowhere to go and the subway stopped running several hours ago, so I hailed a cab. In the backseat, I could still feel a slight dampness on my sleeve and I wondered what the wife came back for. I wondered what Ted would remember of me. I wondered if he would be happy. Somewhere between the second and third thought, I started to cry. Then, I started to sob. The cab driver took a glimpse at his rearview and didn't look back again. With my hastily put on clothes, smeared makeup and sunken eyes, I either looked like someone who has just been abused, or I looked like a cheap whore.

I never forgave Coco for abandoning me that night.

Meeting time.

I sit at the head of the conference table as my vassals stream in and fill the seats before me. There is a low hum of restrained but obligatory greetings amongst them. Nobody risks being branded as the obsequious brown-noser by saying hello to me. Just as well. The last person to say good morning to me makes copies and coffee now.

When every black suit has pulled together to form a solid rectangular outline around the table, the room automatically quiets and the hushed murmurs stop altogether. I take a sip of my coffee. It has too much sugar in it.

“Well, what do we think of this new case? Shall we take on Mrs. Vane’s case against her employer for sexual harassment?” I spoke and wait for it.

“It’s a fairly simple case to make,” someone starts.

“We’ve done plenty of sexual harassment cases already with no sweat,” someone continues.

The new intern finally spoke. “That’s true, but Mrs. Vane’s case seems kind of…” Bingo.

“Kind of what Mr. Veene?” I ask, careful not to affect his answer with a suggestive tone of voice.

“Well, kind of bogus Mr. Dough. Not to be blunt, but she seems to be pulling a case out of nothing. All her boss did was say that dresses are very flattering on her. Your neighbor could say that to you and you wouldn’t blink an eye except to say thank you. Added to the sum of money she’s suing for, and it looks like she has a motive for a very early retirement.” 

“A very good observation Mr. Veene. The points you make are exactly right and should be obvious to the common man.” Silence. “So why did everyone else want to pursue this ‘bogus’ case then?”

The room is silent and nothing moves except for my eyes sweeping across their downcast faces. Those two who spoke before are scared now.

“I suppose we don’t have to take this case if it has no grounds…” one of them says.

“WRONG!” I slam the table as I shoot up from my seat. Everyone looks surprised at my apparently contradictory actions. “This case is simple to present to the court. He once asked her out to lunch. His tone was very suggestive. Perhaps her coworkers have witnessed him giving her lewd looks. He made obscene gestures at her. She will find it impossible to work under male managers from here on out. These simple additions make a case substantial and the fact that most of her supposed early retirement takes the form of legal fees only adds to our motivation for taking on the case.”

The new intern is embarrassed. My lips involuntarily curl upward.

“Litigation is our salvation. Don’t forget our motto,” I add.

The meeting continues for an hour as we extrapolate a solid story for Mrs. Vane and her boss. I am very good at my job, and the associates know it. That’s why these subservient examples of mediocrity stay to appreciate my lessons on how to be a great lawyer.

I drove home in my 1985 custom made Cadillac. No red lights crossed my path today. I remembered how an ex-girlfriend of mine used make me play silly games with her, such as requesting a kiss from me every time the light turned red on us. I told her if anything happened while I was distracted from the road, I would be liable for all kinds of trouble. What a foolish girl. Of course we didn’t last long—none of them do. They always call me petty or cold-blooded or any of those flattering titles bestowed upon us lawyers. Unfortunately, simpletons lack the facilities to understand genius. Fortunately, genius lacks the patience to entertain simpletons for long.

I pull up right in front of my building and see a dazed old man loitering around the sidewalk. The doorman should know better than to allow this to happen. I’ll have to speak with the building manager later.

As I get out of the car, the scraggy thing scuffles towards me. He has a beard that reminds me of dirty snow and a face with the deep wrinkles of having weathered both sun and wind. His shoes can only be described as being in a used dog toy’s condition. Disgusting. I already know what he wants before he reaches a hand out and I raise mine to stop his voice from tainting my ears.

“Listen, sir. Some of us have homes and don’t appreciate being badgered every time we enter or exit our house. This building has a strict no loitering policy. Now please leave the vicinity or you will be forced to leave.”

“Beg you pardon mista, but ’ould you ’ave some extra change?” He completely ignored what I said and asked me anyway like a girl scout selling cookies.

“If I give you some change, will you promise that I will never see your face again?”

“I just need a li’ol change is all.” I reach into my coat pocket and find a stray quarter. I am absurdly generous today. It could have something to do Mrs. Vane’s case. A quarter doesn’t seem too terrible of a donation when compared to the quarter million invoice to be sent out within the next few months. I toss the quarter towards him and quickly walk away, chiding myself for being so irrationally selfless. I make a face at the doorman to show him my displeasure at having to negotiate with beggars when it is his job to keep the doorway clean, but he doesn’t look at me. Instead, he is pointing behind me at my car parked on the street.

That vagrant! What the hell is he doing to my car? I spin around to see the man deposit a quarter into an expired meter.

The single woman at the bar always looks sexy and mysterious on tv. I just feel like a lonely loser. Even the bartender, whose job is to chat up customers for tips, doesn't bother knocking on the silent walls enclosing me.

“You're too passive, always waiting for other people to fall in love with you without you putting in any effort. Why can't you ask someone out?” My best friend Ellie, already engaged to her high school sweetheart, has always helped out where she thought she could.

“I don't know. Call me a romantic, but I can't help believing in fate. One day, Mr. Right will make his way into my life, and there's nothing I can do to get him here sooner or later.”

“Well, what if your fate is to bump into him, not have him bump into you?”

“I'm old fashioned, so the guy has to make the first move.” Ellie could only roll her eyes. She doesn't know how pitiful I really feel, having to defend my singleness with stubborn beliefs. She doesn't know how I envy her and wish that I did have the confidence to pursue love. If I thought I could find him by dating around, I would have weekly quotas.

I tried anyway. The next day, I asked a guy from work to go on a date with me to see a band perform live at this bar. He agreed, but he didn't come. I knew something like this would happen, which is why I didn't tell Ellie.

A couple walks up to the bartender several seats to my left. He looks classy with salt and pepper hair. She looks young enough to be his daughter but old enough to give consent at least. He held her close with an arm around her shoulder. She was quite pretty and carried such self-assurance to match the man’s dignity.

“Two gin and tonic,” the man said, laying down a twenty. The woman didn't say anything but sat down when the man did. After the bartender placed the drinks in front of them, the woman kept an unflinching straight face, occasionally looking down to check her phone. Her drink remained untouched.

I studied them curiously, looking from the man to the woman. I stared at them as if staring long enough would give me the revelation I needed to figure out their relationship. Could this man be taking advantage of this young woman? Blackmail? Prostitution? Or perhaps going to bars was the new father-daughter bonding activity of the week?

Out of the blue, the man turned his head and kissed the top of the woman's head. Immediately, the slight gesture broke her stone set face into a sweet smile, and she turned towards him to share her warmth.

At that moment, the band struck up their first chord and set the entire bar in motion. People interrupted their own conversations to point to the stage and edge closer. It also tore my attention away from the couple so that I could join the crowd gathering before the stage.

Before long, the bar was a genuine rock concert, complete with excited epileptics reacting to the loud music and flashing lights. I had the misfortune of standing by a group of particularly violent dancers and incurred some bruises to the arm, some kicks to my legs and some heavy footprints on my shoes before I could push past the tightly packed bodies around me to a safer zone further behind them.

From there, I noticed two men behind where I stood before with their arms held horizontally before them. Side by side, the men formed a tiny phalanx in the middle of the frenzy. I almost didn't notice that each of their other arms held a woman. They were protecting their girlfriends from getting hurt by the crashing bodies.

I smiled at their backs, silently applauding their gallantry, but my heels were beginning to hurt. I usually wear sneakers or comfortable pumps, but I wore stilettos today on the off chance that my date would show up. I decided I had enough contact with sweaty skin for one night and wanted to go home. Maybe I could rent a Disney movie and order some take out. First, one last drink.

After much pushing and shoving and hand waving to indicate that I wanted to get out, I finally made it to the bar. I ordered a drink but when I tried to pay, a man next to me interrupted and paid for me.

“Hi,” he said, smiling. “What's a sweet girl like you doing here all by yourself?”

“Oh, no. I really like this band, but my friends were busy.” I lied.

“Well, I'm not busy. Want to keep each other company?”

I turned to get a good look at the first man to ever hit on me at a bar. He was short, probably about as tall as me. He dressed plainly, as the average man would dress when going to the bar. His face wrinkled around the eyes and mouth with the warm look of someone who wrinkles from smiling too much. name="Title" content=""> name="Keywords" content=""> http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"> name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"> name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 2008"> name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 2008">

His appearance rated average at best, and this was in the dark. Lawyer? Impossible. Doctor? Not a chance. Business executive? Not with his stature. CPA? Maybe.

He seemed sweet and harmless, but did I really want to get picked up at a bar? I doubt Prince Charming falls in love at bars. The best thing to expect is probably a drunken trip to his place following with fantasizing the next few days about a call that would never come. How romantic. I wonder what Ellie would say.

“Sorry, but I have to get home early.”

“Alright honey, you have a nice one.”

He turned back to his drink and I downed mine before walking out the door.

Immediately, I felt the difference in air density outside. The stillness chilled my bones after bathing in a jacuzzi of pumping noise and vibrating air and crashing bodies for so long. Even without the bass beating incessantly at my body anymore, my muscles continued throbbing as they do after getting a bad massage. Getting used to being in a storm makes calmness all of a sudden a shock. Inside, the bass takes over the air, the ground, the senses, the body. Everything beats to its blows. Outside, the world was still and quiet, waiting for the motion and noise to break out from the nothingness.

Away from the noise and people, I became aware of a beating that continued to thump my body. It was a meek rhythm coming from my chest.

I looked in the mirror
and you’re not there
beside me.
I don’t see your hair
waving away the serious air
from your face.
Below, my hand is not
entwined with yours.
The bronze vines
framing your empty spot
were molded to be just so,
perfect upon completion,
to deteriorate over time.
But we are alive.
We living vines
creep onwards to higher heights
with better risks of surviving,
uglier chances of starving.
I knew,
but the mirror helped me see
that in that midst,
we’ve left each other.

Our air resonates with the whisper of lies,
echos from a silent source.
The color of blood, and the image of slaughter
are strong, clear.
The color of sorrow, and the image of hope
are abstract, and fail us.
Our speakers roar with the maniacal laughter of chainsaws,
maniacal
haunting
entertaining.

Poised between worlds of imagined horror and reality,
I fail to differentiate.
Darkness comes from one source
--inside.

I envy those with enough wisedom and authority
to draw the line
and be content with it.

 

I just watched Sin City and American Psycho, and have been seriously disturbed. X_X

Is it better to have loved and lost than to have never loved? I say it's better to have loved and learned what love is.

So thanks, I guess,
for subjecting my body to passion,
for acting out my poetic fantasies,
for showing me something...nice.

And now for the real world.

---

When the more you know,
the more you know you don't.
So how do you know?

---

I suppose you take the shards and the noise,

the mess,

take it and leave.

---

Curse the blade for drawing blood
or thank the gods for having blood to spill?

---

I've begged you to take a look,
but you forsake my secrets.
Of course, my secrets mean nothing to you
when you only love the me without undisclosed desires.