in motel lighting all you see are flaws.

long red fingernails
with jesus hanging from her neck,
she sits cross-legged with the upper leg bouncing from the knee down
and her high heel shoe is

barely holding on
from the comfort of motel bedding.
the comfort of decor reminiscent of art (but not quite art at all).
she's thinking about going back down to Allison St.
there is no desire to get comfy in a motel with an hourly rate,
pastel flowered everything, and tiny soaps.

home is a place made up of
cracked pavement and trash
dumpsters.
dealers.
hookers.
shitty cars.
and humidity.

they say there is something better available
but being lonely is cheap,
and easier to grow accustom to,
much like the cold sweats/headaches/nose bleeds;
these temporary states of being.

and just like an agency taking applications
she applies herself
to motel men looking for the right fit, she applies
lipstick like a new coat of paint, she applies
pressure with her hands, mouth, pelvis, she applies
his touch where she feels most dirty,

and even when she's clothed, she's naked
in t/his bed. in t/his shower. in his eyes. dirty.

she lights a newport leaving red lipstick on the filter,
makeup meant to cover and conceal the abominable truth,
that there is something worse than desperation,
it's called addiction
and boy oh boy,
she has a few...
something with whores, holes, blow, sores and hope

from the comfort of motel bedding
she extends her fingernail to her nose
and she inhales heaven. high. ecstasy. coke.

and then with jesus dying on her neck
she makes her way back down to Allison St.

room 623, room b4, room 11f,
ask for rhonda. marilyn. bianca.
ask for her by name.
don't miss out
she's the blue light red light special,

each name is a new position,
bob was a traveling insurance salesman en route to topeka,
dan was a trucker heading west on I-90,
butch was a quiet guy taking the long way home,

each name is a different miniature soap lathered on dirty places,
carl was a private investigator with loose lips and a ton of secrets,
not to be confused with kyle, the touring thespian desperate for affection,

and each new name is another wrong number
written in cursive across notepad paper,
a new application.

and these men are only fragments
of the men they want to be.

knowing this, she still waits impatiently
for another name to own/use/seduce her,

these names that only tell her lies,
these notepad numbers that only build her hope,
or if nothing else,
these fragments that afford her blow.

she is dorothy far from kansas.
she is debbie far from dallas,
she is alice far from home,
but tonight she belongs to him,
this awkward pale princess from california,
and he can call her jasmine.

she phones it in tonight
with pretentious porn star moans
with delicate finger tips
with performance poses
with jesus bouncing on her neck

and charlie. john. mitch is gone before she wakes.
with lipstick on his dirty parts, gone
with his fragments, gone
with a pair of souvenir panties, gone.

no name ever stays in the position she leaves him in.

and this is her, all this time bouncing
her leg as she sits cross-legged,
her high heel shoe holding on,
a newport caressed between her lips,
and jesus crucified above her breasts,

this is her permanent address on Allison St.
a newly furnished pastel prison
where she resides under the name julie. lisa. lesley,
with her hourly rate and her tiny soaps.

by morning she will have suffered, died, and been buried
only to come again,
only to prescribe herself to motel men
who don't care that her roots are showing,

one last line of coke
with jesus nailed to her neck,
and from the comfort of motel bedding she lets out a sigh,
the tempest released is category five or worse
and she looks like
she feels like
shit,

but given the circumstances, the lighting is perfect.

07/19/2005

Author's Note: Written with the brilliance of Frankie Sanchez.

Posted on 07/19/2005
Copyright © 2010 Nicole Hyde