For Mayor Michael Bloomberg of New York City
by Karen Morris
Bloom Town Porn
She wakes him with a blue screen kiss. Before he even stirs her sea foam mouth is upon him─ her longing for him a palpable stain, is constant. She lifts the perfect button of her haunches to the screen and shouts “Drive me home!” The alarm clock shrieks. Today will be like yesterday so full of her. He cries out her name in small punctuated mews─
Brandy. . . Brandy. . . Brandy
On top of taxi cabs everywhere she glides, Queen of Bloom Town, hawking slick penciled-in lips and galactic under brow hi-lites advertising FLASHDANCERS Gentleman’s Club for discerning dudes, their hard bodies indistinguishable trapezoids.
What has to be cherry scented smoke pours from her wild-green eyes─ Brandy.
He spends his half hour lunch on the corner waiting for her to pass, watching, waiting, to catch a still, wired whiff of her.
For Brandy, he is lost in a kiss, the one he had always hoped to die for but didn’t. For Brandy, the veal grows cold upon his plate. For Brandy, he’s maxed out his Amex. For Brandy, he waxes his chest. For Brandy, he keeps one hand from all others. For Brandy, his sheets have turned to crust. For Brandy, he has become a blur.
Afternoons at 4, his numbers are down. He stakes her g-string at the team meeting. For 2- bits he eats it on a dare. A coworker wrote, “In love with the Mayor’s lube-tube” on a Post-It note and stuck it to his monitor. “For Brandy,” he says, “my badge of honor.” Real estate’s stiff business in this town.
“Dehlia’s gone. Again. Should we call someone?” “Climb up!” he said, “Let’s have some fun.” The driver of the gold Bronco looks just like a Golden Palomino to her wild, 4-year-old eyes. So much like Uncle. Another Uncle called her “Bronco-Bustin’ Blondie,” and bounced her higher and harder the more she giggled, and another called her, “Queen of All the Uncle’s Laps.”
“Vehl, Dehlia Vehl” her mother snaps into the phone, “V-E-H-L. She’s gone. Someone must ha’ took her.” Gold and Amber flash everywhere she is not.
Bouncing off the vinyl on the back seat of the black Suburban, the now dark-haired little girl finally tuckers out. She tucks and balls herself into numbing slumber, as the Suburban drifts past sleepy thruway drivers and loaded-down trucks snaking their way across country. She dreams past tower after radio tower of breaking Fox News reports in lightning strikes along the thruway, each flash the sighting of another sleeping child.
From the bottom of her wishing well she hears her name for the very last time she will remember─ “Golden,” it said− Like a Palomino? “Deal, Deal! Git-up!“−
the voice as soft and round and gravel-hard as mother’s voice once was.
I hear Dolly cry all night. A hungry “o” needs to be fed. I search and search
the dark shed for the tiny “o” of her mouth to crawl into. I stick myself like a bottle
into Dolly’s mouth. The shed’s rattlin’. Someone’s coming. These men are not my uncles− they smell different. I plug her cries.
I hold onto the pole Ass-Hole, cause when I let go the room collapses into ice cold blackness, and the blackness pokes and tears. I wake in the stain pit with the other girls─
Mother, mother, where are you, I’m here─ my face pressed to the soft brown velvet. I’ve worn a hole about the size of a quarter with my little pinky finger. “Git up on the pole, Brandy.” With my other little finger I hook the constellation of stains into one milky cosmos. When I let go the pole I’m a stain on the dark. It is my one true speck of glitter left. I cock my head and tip my ear and it says my name to me, “star.” It holds me when I stroke it with my whole solar plexus. It stays firm and frozen there in the dark.
The pole never leaves me alone, Ass-Hole.
Karen Morris, LP, NCPsyA, is a poet and psychoanalyst in private practice in Manhattan and Honesdale, PA. She received the Gradiva Award (2010) for the publication of her paper “Torture and Attachment: Conscience and the Analyst’s World-Seeing Eye”, which was originally presented at IFPE. She is currently involved in Art Works For Freedom, an organization which uses the arts to bring public awareness to the problems of human trafficking.