The Red Hanger From Hong Kong
The Red Hanger from Hong Kong. Having coffee with Alex, early p.m. ritual weekend snop. I listen with content the latter of the former, tears stream inside my eyes, I was gone when you were all there, laughing, chatting, giggling about, I was gone, gone onto monsters of the past lives generated from darkness placed on white plates, the corrective of princeliness.
The ribs of Adam, covered in red sauce hot sauce, sauce that the saints once called home, sauce that accounted for the aches and pains and sicknesses over the past 100 years of the golden moonlight cresting upon the hill.
The Red Hanger from Hong Kong, floating in a bowl of Cheerios, her Japanese response when we made love on mattresses dragged from the room next to her mother’s room, her Japanese heart, her Japanese love, her Japanese smile, her Japanese eyes, her Japanese voice, by now, so American, invading white-bread chromosomes into her back, her spine, her walls of life, which by the time I got there were fiery, screaming a wild curse to the American sky, moaning in Japanese, crying in Asianisms, laughing in Orientalologies, the secret you were to my parents for four and a half years, killing me with love, sex, words, food, abuse and kindness, buying me presents, dinners, clothing, gasoline, vacations, while I supplied the condoms.
Why, I remember the time in DC, that broken down old hotel we stayed at, the garbage truck kept you awake, so we moved to a more expensive down-the-street sort of inn, just to get some rest, knowing full well that wasn’t going to happen, sucking and fucking in that same DC night, me coming, you high and dry, but loving the sensation more and more, later waking up in each other’s arms, bathing and dressing together, Siamese twins in historical city.
Wanting to separate to see other lands, you wouldn’t hear of it. Had fight. First of several that lost weekend. I as a child seeing Smoky Bear that very first time, President Kennedy still alive. Me, a man. Holding your hand. Telling you I must go alone to see some of the land.
You reluctantly agreeing.
It worked out, didn’t it?
Dinner was sickening. You took care of me, cradling my head upon your breast.
Mother you were to me that night.
The Red Hanger from Hong Kong.
The Red Hanger from Hong Kong. Having coffee with Alex, early p.m. ritual weekend snop. I listen with content the latter of the former, tears stream inside my eyes, I was gone when you were all there, laughing, chatting, giggling about, I was gone, gone onto monsters of the past lives generated from darkness placed on white plates, the corrective of princeliness.The ribs of Adam, covered in red sauce hot sauce, sauce that the saints once called home, sauce that accounted for the aches and pains and sicknesses over the past 100 years of the golden moonlight cresting upon the hill.
The Red Hanger from Hong Kong, floating in a bowl of Cheerios, her Japanese response when we made love on mattresses dragged from the room next to her mother’s room, her Japanese heart, her Japanese love, her Japanese smile, her Japanese eyes, her Japanese voice, by now, so American, invading white-bread chromosomes into her back, her spine, her walls of life, which by the time I got there were fiery, screaming a wild curse to the American sky, moaning in Japanese, crying in Asianisms, laughing in Orientalologies, the secret you were to my parents for four and a half years, killing me with love, sex, words, food, abuse and kindness, buying me presents, dinners, clothing, gasoline, vacations, while I supplied the condoms.
Why, I remember the time in DC, that broken down old hotel we stayed at, the garbage truck kept you awake, so we moved to a more expensive down-the-street sort of inn, just to get some rest, knowing full well that wasn’t going to happen, sucking and fucking in that same DC night, me coming, you high and dry, but loving the sensation more and more, later waking up in each other’s arms, bathing and dressing together, Siamese twins in historical city.
Wanting to separate to see other lands, you wouldn’t hear of it. Had fight. First of several that lost weekend. I as a child seeing Smoky Bear that very first time, President Kennedy still alive. Me, a man. Holding your hand. Telling you I must go alone to see some of the land.
You reluctantly agreeing.
It worked out, didn’t it?
Dinner was sickening. You took care of me, cradling my head upon your breast.
Mother you were to me that night.
The Red Hanger from Hong Kong.
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