Motel Borinquen

Motel Borinquen

A condom falls on night’s shadows.

Desire lubricates my insides.

I’m sedated by your bang hole,

the jazz, the cannabis, the nether elite

to which I aspire.

Come to my dildo

manufactured on the streets

of Borinquen.

This word archeology

discovers the bone, the psychic earthquake

of reason’s instability and all

its caveman connections.

The sun falls on the city’s mist,

its eye penetrates the hustler’s wallet

and the hidden book of Babylon.

Insolent amazement dries

drunks’ rheum. A beautiful river

descends from a stone and travels

to the caveman’s ancient foreskin.

It is the transfiguration

of androgynous men into angels

carrying the metaphysics

of their pockets in their language.

The luxury of their burials

conveys the stigma of a leprechaun.

Because they made money

the final solution…the microcosm

of their soul is dead.

They’re threatened

by the burnished skeleton of a lover

and a joke made with a vulture’s gaze.

It’s not always like this.

But the city’s bourgeois need him

so he rushes to the blue chalet

by the sea, Motel Borinquen!