hotel bone

the job

B R Dionysius knocks on my window one morning

flesh on glass seems to create its own separate taste

upon the middle-eastern-mayhem blasting from a radio somewhere

in the vicinity of this maze

and I almost mistake the tapping for someone else;

asking me to move my car again

people being restless,

restless, restless

into the Ramadhan air

and my dreamtime has little chance

of getting me into that party

but B R is present now

to offer me an assignment,

some cash and more cred.

we sit in my mouse-trap kitchen, my boardinghouse atmosphere,

nothing short of a Casbah

as we gesture and negotiate the terms of a future poetry reading

with the flair of African mercenaries

over drinks out of tainted crystal

it reminds me of the reason

for why I came here in the first place

and B R with his good vibes

as always

neglecting to comment on the ectoplasmic-urine of this stucco shell;

this chasm for my reinvention

taking it day by day

and just accepting it,

as a job.