“El Cortez Never Slept Here, I'll Bet
”
El
Cortez Motel, Serra Vista Arizona
10
April 1975
Gas pipe clock
ticking, popping
and hissing.
The heat seems like
an extra.
I am not unfamiliar
to this place,
this cave from the
wind and sun.
A bed for tossed
sleep.
Two doors.
One for exit.
One for sewer.
Not ugly.
Not pretty.
Petty maybe
and oh so barren.
I am here now
and I am everywhere
I have every been
or will be.
It comes when I
need it.
Does it talk of
home. Yes!
Home with paint,
color and warmth.
But is the skin the
difference
or it the shape,
the texture
of the living,
the smile I can see
and not look into
the mirror
to get?
Inside.
Inside the body.
Inside the mind,
there is the
deepest longing
for love.
Am I a man in want
of companionship?
A TV mate?
An after 5 ear?
How many dimensions
do we live in?
How many separate
lives?
How may joined?
See-through
curtains
and a yellow walk
light outside to welcome.
Mail slot in a
wooden door.
Could this place be?
Has it been
someone's home?
Solitude and gas
pipes.
Faint mumbling
through the walls.
Neighbors perhaps?
Two pillows for one
man.
A bed badly slept
in and unmade.
Lusting for sex,
cats scream outside
and fight.
Solitude and lust.
Are they the day of
night love?
Is love something
to fill a vacancy?
There is always
vacancies here.
Without a clock,
there is no time
inside.
The sun comes
before you see it,
up over the window
sill,
across the chrome
faucet
and into the room.
"Sunlight will
renew your pride"
comes to mind
but the voice is
from the inside.
Books collecting on
a counter top.
A stone collected
adds some charm
but no Marvin
Gardens is this.
A sore lip.
The insides wishing
their way out.
Visibly, a fever
inside my mind.
Longing for home, I
know this is a part of my life
I should not
condemn.
I see wanting and
needing are two separate things.
Wanting love?
Wanting to touch
you?
Wanting to love you?
Filling voids
or needing?
Needs, what are
they?
To drink so as not
to thirst
or to drink so as
not to perish?
To love and be
loved to fill
or only to make
whole?
Clothes thrown in
floor corners.
Shoes stepped out
of still tied
by the single
couch.
A carpet the color
of dust and dirt.
A blue fringed
bedspread.
Non fitted sheets.
Light switches that
control nothing and
a door bell on
number 12.
Refrigerator hum
cooling its
insides.
Farting out the
heat,
I get weary of
being here.
Maybe sleep will
release
and transport.
Dreams that don't
know what I look like inside
my white walls.
No food odors.
No cooking grease.
Somehow it all fits
together, this room and I.
I am glad I have
seen it.
Do not hate it,
but heard its
silent,
low ceiling echo.
It's one thing
and make no attempt
to be more.
I wonder if it
loves me
or even notices I
am here?
Do I fill its
holes,
its needs?
Or am I only using
it like some parasite?
Love and the
future.
Looking out for
more
or at least
a steady supply.
Addicted to
addictions.
Needing a familiar
face
to reassure that
the world has not changed
and left me behind.
One sitting chair
occupied,
pushed up against
the dresser,
empty. Beside the
wall box heater,
next to the pile of
dirties,
feet shoed, pushing
the blue fringe.
I am here,
legs crossed
"Entertainment
for Men"
a desk top.
Writing on soldiers
form.
Eyes to the paper.
Eyes through glass
windows,
out.
No time has gone
since I started to write.
The heat is
"On".
The heat is
"Off".
I must decide what
to do
and the room,
now my third arm
or me the extra
furniture doesn't care.
Gas pipe clock
ticking and popping
and hissing.
The heat seems like an extra.