here.
Corrugated faces show the pain and character of who we've been, but are devoid of fear. We vibrate to each others' bodies, meanings, minds. We've come to burn some bridges with our friends and all the holy strangers of our past and future
lives.
In one hotel, God's in the suite called Honeymoon; his prophet is in 504. Call girls whisper past these gilt-edged doors in stocking feet, wade the carpet ankle deep. At 3, Room Service brings a bite to eat. Beneath the great white beehive, the buzz of silence is like
ecstasy.
Hum of symposium fills the days. Ballrooms are auditoriums where we speak, play, listen to the eddies of our blood. Flood of memory pools in every fingertip; we touch each other's lives like relics, pass them, watch as neighbors fondle our
regrets.
Her chest the sun, her back the moon, Goddess rising in a glass-walled elevator. Floating a corridor, I enter the arms of a dark woman in white. In another hotel, I fell from her theological spell to find a daughter of noon who named herself
Hope.
We dine in a Room at the Bottomâ€" red-flocked wallpaper and lingerie fashion shows. Rows and rows of banquet tables recede in memory. Progressive
dinners in the Lafayette, the Grand, the Bonneville, beneath-tri-colored canopy on sloping green. Aftertaste is
dream.
Chartered buses move us in a night; interior lights are out, our destination blank. Across the tracks, City of God's urban underbelly swells with loneliness. All those ballrooms. All those banquet rooms. All those bedrooms. All those
hotels.