It was late. Nearly sunrise, going by time. This was a jumble of urban fabric meeting in a cacophonous disharmony of structures: road, warehouse, railroad, bridge, road — not junction, rather a tangle of near-misses, excepting the two surface roads. Under the cold concrete arches of the viaduct, though, dawn didn’t seem so near. The amber haze of sodium lamps glared down, inhuman, unfeeling, unchanging. The light seemed to rip away the passage of time,
I was slow to learn the rhythm, to connect to my body in any meaningful way, like knowing which angle makes my ass look its juiciest. The fact is that for a while, my body meant nothing to me. The first few months, I was alone in my room. No noise. No good lighting. I just took my clothes off, took a couple pics, pressed send. I felt nothing. Not panic,
Sometimes I like
To find a flat rock
An outcropping in a park
Or nature preserve
And feel for some time
Like the shape of me
Can sit comfortably
On a firm portion of earth
What did I learn in Las Vegas, where the teachers are one-armed bandits?
I often think back on that trip to Vegas, to that town where farm girls
wear high heel shoes and no panties, and what did I learn?
We pulled into the parking lot at Circus-Circus and got a room for three
at less than $25.