Adventures in Mobile Blogging: When Josie Was a Whore

Seated on an eastbound streetcar,
trying to reassemble the evidence
spilling too fast into the open.

The email inbox, a startling accident,
replies cascading screen after screen
with similar replies:
SEXY LIBRARIAN! CHEAP DATE, INCALLS ONLY!

The agreement — head for sixty, a hundred to fuck.
Always denominated in flowers or kisses, never dollars.
such transactions don’t require such blatant currencies.

I am trying to chart the landscape of our future, but I am a poor mapmaker
and the details are proving too much to black out.

The hands at her neck,
the lips sucking along her clavicle,
her nipples like thimbles stretching out from the top of her breasts,
the dirty fingernails clawing inside her,
the expressions.

Instead, I stare at my arm resting
on the streetcar’s windowsill,
pushing the life out of me at the fingertips,
my spirit curling into the black,
smoke from a cigarette’s ember;

leaving this fleshy husk,
a cold simulacrum
to tell her the lies she needs me to say,

the lies I need to tell.

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