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.

IF YOU ARE FAMILIAR

WITH MONA ARIZONA,

YOU WILL BE FAMILIAR

WITH THE TYPE OF

POETRY SHE SOMETIMES

PUTS TO PAPER.

READER BEWARE,

THIS IS ONE OF THOSE POEMS!

©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

Mimi and Mona Poetry: Arizona

©Arizona

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

Arizona;

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.

Arizona.

Arizona.

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

Arizona.

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)

Mimi Wolske - Mona Arizona Poetry: RAZZMATAZZ

JAZZING THINGS UP WITH POETRY...
(shared here for those who can't access WordPress)

©Razzmatazz

Implicated, we’re

in a situation

never fully

revealed.

We wanted to be

the sky — a

formal rendering

of word fragments

glimpsed as

a passing cloud,

overheard but

never really

paying

attention

on the train,

on the radio,

in the street,

in newspapers.

A clock-maker’s

revelation.

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

revealed.

 Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

(painting: Razzmatazz by Roy Lichtenstein)

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