Friday, November 6, 2015

Mimi - Mona Poetry: Pink-Polka-Dot Men Laugh

The Gods have fashioned us for love. 
That is our great glory, and it is our great tragedy.


©Pink-Polka-Dot Men Laugh
and pay Zara — they have
poison oak but they want what
the heavy-breasted whore
on The Upper Haight sells.
It’s more than fortunes if you
know the right name when
you call to purchase her
services. Dark stairs lead
men and women to her rooms.
They’re there for her to fuck them
in the back room, away from
the prying eyes and busy nose
of her brother who is visiting.
In the front, she takes money
from widows, women with
no lovers, and sensitive men;
she makes up stories and
tells paying customers lies
based on what she has read
in the news, on the web, on
social media sites they have joined,
and from all she has learned
during her life on the streets.
They believe her. She is quite
convincing with her Tarot cards
and crystal ball on its brass stand.
In the back room, the polka-
dot men drop an easy three
one hundred dollar bills for Zara to
suck their brains out through
their cocks and more C-spots from
each to let them poke her in the
back door, to bring a friend, and
to place her chocolate thighs
on the sides of their heads
and sit on their faces so they
can jam their tongues into
her wide cave and prove
they are man enough to
find the nonexistent nectar
and suck it down. One pushes
her aside and yells “Mama!
Phew! That sure is some damn fine
vulva-aid you got down there!”
She laughs. The pink polka-dot
men laugh and the others pay
to prove they can do it, too.
They put three more Benjamins
on her table so they can
sandwich her between two
of them while she lets the
third drill her mouth.
In the morning, before she
changes the sheets so she
can sleep, Zara counts
her earnings. It’s been a
long night; she’s cold and
she’s hungry, but she smiles.
She would have taken
out her teeth for the third
man, but he didn’t have
an extra fifty for the thrill.

by Mona Arizona
All Rights Reserved

Thursday, November 5, 2015

Mimi and Mona Poetry: Arizona

Mimi Wolske
All Rights Reserved

he would never kick
it completely off his boots,
the dust of Arizona, heavy
and unrelenting, it would
cling to the angled heels.
So, why was he here
at the place of the one
woman he’d left
months ago? She
never opened the door
or happily greeted him when
he finally stepped inside.
He teased her with a few,
short sentences, kissed
the air, not her, and took
her there on her couch.
The last wasn’t planned.
Her whining had driven
him mad until he gave in,
gave her what she thought
she wanted from him without
permitting those claws
of hers to dig deep into
his skin so she could
continue to hold him
in a life he didn't want.

He couldn’t finish.
He didn't really
want to fuck her and
she did nothing but
lay on her back and
let him push his naked
flesh against hers
with no moans or
loving cries to encourage
him to complete the act—
that’s all it was with her.
He sat up to regain
his breath and, thick-
tongued, cotton mouthed,
and choking, was
immediately sorry
since the smell from
her nether region
brought to his mind
that day he spent
near the Pacific and
the odor from a seafood deli–
dried tuna and sour cheese.
It left his cock drenched
in the nauseating
stench of dill pickles.
Complaints and tears,
arguments and words
meant to belittle him;
the reason to leave
came back to him.
He knew where he
was his happiest.

She hated that place,
and his unconscious
whispers with her name,
and the smell of tequila
worms on his breath,
and that twitch with her
behind his crooked smile.
He may as well have
been in the desert with
his tanned bitch for
all the good her tears
had done, drying up
before they reached him.
He’d be sorry, she
had warned. He’d pay
for leaving her again.

She knew he was
fleeing her again to escape;
heading back to Mexico
he said; she knew that
State of Arizona
tugged on his big toes.
She knew she’d never
get her hooks into him.
When she wailed, he
said, “Shut up,” for one
last fuck. She did,
and prayed he’d come
back to her, or, at
least, think of her yet
she knew he’d never as
long as he had her and

She hated Arizona
and the woman who
ran naked through the
desert with him while
the sun burned his
northern white ass.
The leather divan was
cold, but his words
as he left were
colder. He said
“I don’t want you,”
and walked out, his
big toe twitching,
his dusty boots back
on his wandering feet,
and Arizona waiting
with its scorpion
sting left in her heart.

Arizona never
made him stay if he
wanted to go. He knew
that. And the woman
waiting for him there
would have changed
the sheets on her bed
and would turn her
book over with the
page left open because
she would stop reading
when he knocked on
her adobe home’s door.
He who never stayed
longer than a few months
but never truly left her...
He’d smile when she
welcomed him back with
a knowing grin, a few
kind words, and a naked
embrace he’d never forget
and never want to leave.
Arizona was the lucky one.

(She Is His - mixed media on canvas board)

Wednesday, November 4, 2015

Mimi Wolske - Mona Arizona Poetry: RAZZMATAZZ

(shared here for those who can't access WordPress)


Implicated, we’re
in a situation
never fully
We wanted to be
the sky — a
formal rendering
of word fragments
glimpsed as
a passing cloud,
overheard but
never really
on the train,
on the radio,
in the street,
in newspapers.
A clock-maker’s
Surreal sensibility...
both familiar
and strange;
thoughts and
feelings gestate
in those spaces
dark and luminous,
equivocal and eloquent,
implicating us
in a situation
never fully

 Mimi Wolske
All Rights Reserved

(painting: Razzmatazz by Roy Lichtenstein)

Tuesday, November 3, 2015

Mimi - Mona Poetry: Tell Her Adieu

©Tell Her Adieu

Her failings shattered, became exposed;
she couldn’t prevent what you disclosed.

You ignored her as you ignored your own
beating heart, spurred on by testosterone.
You had her trust not to starve her
of your self, not to openly ignore her
as one of the walking dead. Did you tell
everyone the two of you split? Well?
Is that your reason to lock her in your hell,
in some cyberfile away from prying eyes
to be opened only when you can circumcise
her from her love and enjoy her privately?

She is a lovely, kind, thoughtful, unmanned,
and intelligent woman, and I cannot stand
the way she is being hurt by you;
time for you to tell her adieu.

She was drunk and crying; she could not
be anything but honest; that’s not tommyrot.
The look in her eyes was like the look
of someone when they first awaken...shook
because the surroundings are unfamiliar;
where everything seems to be a blur.

You fell in love with her honest moments.
Now you love unmade beds with a reverence
as you immigrate from one liminal space
to the next, from one Jezebel to the next scapegrace.

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved