Thursday, March 4, 2010

I See,

I See,

Through the cloudy, bullet-proof glass,
That the thin, small woman
Has a gold stud in her nose.

I fill out the card
And slide it, and thirty-five dollars,
Through the slot.

She seems to stare down at the desk
But watches me like a television
In her third eye.

I wonder how deeply she sees,
The pen in her hand stock-still,
Her mouth open.

I wonder how far her senses can go
Into my thick past,
My problems.

I’m the weirdest thing she’s ever seen
Or maybe just everyday,
Only clearer.

There’s curry smell
And a sensation
Like marijuana.


In the room,
One pillowcase
Is gray from greasy heads.

The shower curtain is
A torn nylon tarp, and a nickel-sized hole,
Not a peephole, is in the door.

She gave me

Since I have my good camera,
I strip and I shoot myself
On the carpet.

What else could
Such a place
Be for?

I spend an hour
While she watches me from across the parking lot,
Acne under her chocolate-brown face.

Don’t see

The strength of my awareness,
My picture, my fine tuning,
Makes hers, for that time, even stronger.

A five-dollar bill
On the discolored pillow.

This is more,
I’m sure,
Than she



by Coke Brown Jr. -
as posted on Coke's Croaks -

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