tasters choice
I spend seven fifty for a shave and I get cut, twenty five cents for a cup of coffee, five bucks for one room with a fan, and seventy for another with egyptian sheets, fifty bucks for a fuck, and two for a movie with spanish subtitles. three dollars for espresso and white chocolate sorbet , and a quarter for a chicken soup with yucca. Im living in two cities in one, an air conditioned flat with room service and a sweaty colonial three story with broken beams settled on a slant. I dont get dry, I just keep dripping from the shower to the soaked sheets, to the night, panama, the ocean, one man ontop of another
two rooms inside one house. The iglesias and the black majic bottled in the market.
“No way baby” it aint gonna fly. thats what I tell her as she walks down the street with milk for the family, two blocks of nothing but churches dressed in white plaster and sasheed pelvic downstrokes condeming one street to buckle and one to die. baby aunt jemimas with big cohibas jammed into thier ceramic mouths for sacrifice sit caddy corner to a white and black plastic newlyweds under glass. I walk through the streets above the market, the old lady grabs my pillon, the crane bangs another finger, and the ocean laps against the concrete and black glass towers at the footboard.” you want to be married” she asks me, all seventy five years of her body bruise my back as I turn towards the door, the matrimonial trinket stuffed in a plastic bag in my fist.
the poker keeps on coming, it doesnt make me sad anymore, or make me happy, I dont go up and I dont go down, Ive settled into the middle, Ive settled into never giving it up, and whatever consequences that might have,you gotta go all in with the nut flush, and whatever happens after that has got nothing to do with you. panama, bogota, barcelona, women and cards and that painful beauty that beats back not painting, not writting not being better
Im sitting on the edge of the bed, in a colonial corner with walls that miss the ceiling by four feet, theres a scavened cord that probably used to dangle a bulb above the bed, a monks king, with cream sateen worn soft like a fast table, frankie loved maria there in blue ballpoint on the pillow, against the wall with the red chair moulding splitting this bastion in two. theres a vertical two foot flourescent sconce staggered against a broken mirror by the door, and two beatiful shuttered french curtains facing the street . Im shot up, gristle smaking my gums, all choked up on a run, in a city that feels like home.
I walk into the glass and mirrored stainless lobby of the venetto, the dark panamanian woman behind the marble desk, was on her back for me the night before, sucking in the united states, and giving me the players discount on the room. the lobby is full of low grade hookers in acid wash skin tights and sequined belts that bounce reflections from the mirrored ceiling to the chromed pillars, and the buffet ladels behind the texas game. Im freerolling between via espana and the old panamanian port where a back door leads to a disco at noon, where the leveled pier, and the catch boats string a flax net under a long black bar, with dirty skirted girls like green and blue chairs on a ferris wheel. thirty two blinking children spreading themselves over the fishmarket. white teeth on sticks, rocking backwards on a nooseline towards my face. oxygen escapes into my lungs, the door like a snuffed trachia birthing the gasious compound, from one whores lips to another.
I finally booked a sailboat for columbia, it leaves in two weeks. A century old steel schooner that’ll drag the san blast and send me deep into the bow. eight days on a boat will give me a taste if thats a life for me, eight days away from land, like a car crash that never ends, a stone wall that doesnt swallow, zero to sixty with no chaser. spinning spinning spinning, into blind headlights, into icy banks into dixies arms, another near death embrace, the outstretched assasin smilling back, one swell one break, one broken tooth at a time
two rooms inside one house. The iglesias and the black majic bottled in the market.
“No way baby” it aint gonna fly. thats what I tell her as she walks down the street with milk for the family, two blocks of nothing but churches dressed in white plaster and sasheed pelvic downstrokes condeming one street to buckle and one to die. baby aunt jemimas with big cohibas jammed into thier ceramic mouths for sacrifice sit caddy corner to a white and black plastic newlyweds under glass. I walk through the streets above the market, the old lady grabs my pillon, the crane bangs another finger, and the ocean laps against the concrete and black glass towers at the footboard.” you want to be married” she asks me, all seventy five years of her body bruise my back as I turn towards the door, the matrimonial trinket stuffed in a plastic bag in my fist.
the poker keeps on coming, it doesnt make me sad anymore, or make me happy, I dont go up and I dont go down, Ive settled into the middle, Ive settled into never giving it up, and whatever consequences that might have,you gotta go all in with the nut flush, and whatever happens after that has got nothing to do with you. panama, bogota, barcelona, women and cards and that painful beauty that beats back not painting, not writting not being better
Im sitting on the edge of the bed, in a colonial corner with walls that miss the ceiling by four feet, theres a scavened cord that probably used to dangle a bulb above the bed, a monks king, with cream sateen worn soft like a fast table, frankie loved maria there in blue ballpoint on the pillow, against the wall with the red chair moulding splitting this bastion in two. theres a vertical two foot flourescent sconce staggered against a broken mirror by the door, and two beatiful shuttered french curtains facing the street . Im shot up, gristle smaking my gums, all choked up on a run, in a city that feels like home.
I walk into the glass and mirrored stainless lobby of the venetto, the dark panamanian woman behind the marble desk, was on her back for me the night before, sucking in the united states, and giving me the players discount on the room. the lobby is full of low grade hookers in acid wash skin tights and sequined belts that bounce reflections from the mirrored ceiling to the chromed pillars, and the buffet ladels behind the texas game. Im freerolling between via espana and the old panamanian port where a back door leads to a disco at noon, where the leveled pier, and the catch boats string a flax net under a long black bar, with dirty skirted girls like green and blue chairs on a ferris wheel. thirty two blinking children spreading themselves over the fishmarket. white teeth on sticks, rocking backwards on a nooseline towards my face. oxygen escapes into my lungs, the door like a snuffed trachia birthing the gasious compound, from one whores lips to another.
I finally booked a sailboat for columbia, it leaves in two weeks. A century old steel schooner that’ll drag the san blast and send me deep into the bow. eight days on a boat will give me a taste if thats a life for me, eight days away from land, like a car crash that never ends, a stone wall that doesnt swallow, zero to sixty with no chaser. spinning spinning spinning, into blind headlights, into icy banks into dixies arms, another near death embrace, the outstretched assasin smilling back, one swell one break, one broken tooth at a time
posted by bigworld06 at 7:59 AM
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