the ceo health club

living in a big city like this, the sex clubs aren't even a secret.
white-collar CEOs pay $60 by the hour to use some underage girl.
the bright, flashing neon signs of a massage parlor hide the truth --
vietnamese, korean and thai teens packed into secret rooms like the hundred dollar bills in their customers' wallets.

whenever i go to one of these clubs i always ask for their most experienced girl.
i pay the $120 for 2 hours and she leads me into a room where a makeshift curtain over the door provides our only privacy.
she takes off her clothes and reveals such a small pair of breasts i know she's not 18.
she reaches for my crotch and i grab her hand and say "no."

the thing you have to understand about these girls is that behind their perfunctory smiles
and fake orgasms there's really just a damaged soul.
when they aren't moaning they're crying and praying to a God other than the one whose name they scream during sex.
that's why instead of offering another penis to suck, tug and grind, i offer a shoulder to cry on.

life as a dining hall

an enormously large hall
filled with numerous tables.
but i won't visit them all,
even if i was able.

i can walk through this place,
head to the exit at the end.
or i could stop and chat,
perhaps even make a friend.

so what's it going to be?
head down or chin up?
leave after the main course,
or have the waiter refill my cup?

i may just stay awhile,
perhaps i'll find a wife.
i can't even see the exit,
surrounded by all this life.

vision

where i see large black
and white buttons,
a pianist sees melodic
rhythms and tones.

where i see a disfigured
face and crooked eyes,
an artist sees the tormented,
struggling soul within.

where i see a confusing array
of jumbled letters and numbers,
a genius sees pieces
of a much larger puzzle.

and where i see myself,
normal, ordinary and simple,
vying for a place in this world ...
you see so much more.