Magic Fingers

Iowa City’s massage parlors
catered to forsaken gentlemen
of all vocations—truckers, day laborers,
shift workers, nervous students who
didn’t have time for girlfriends. 

I perched on a couch between two other women
and waited for patrons to make their pick.

Some guys liked blondes, others, brunettes.
Each chose a masseuse as casually
as he might select a six-pack.
A one-girl back rub with extras cost the same, 

no matter who supplied it. I started with 
shoulders, running my fingers 
along stringy muscles, squeezing flesh 
like overripe fruit, eventually working my way

downwards. The men liked to pretend 
I was an innocent conquest, perhaps 
sipping beer at an off-campus haunt
on an awkward first date.

“Are you a student?” 
“What is your major?”
“What do you do when you’re not working?”

They finally emitted milky streams
of pleasure, grunted a couple of times,
and wiped themselves off with a hand towel.

Afterwards, I joined the other women
on the well-worn lobby couch, and we
watched Rockford Files reruns until it grew so late

that Iowa City’s cache of lonely guys
had all gone to sleep: solo in a single bed
or curled beside their unsuspecting wives,
but alone either way. 

Heat

It was hot, an understatement I cannot
overstate. Meanwhile, good boys and
girls sat in crisp, cool air-conditioned
cubicles, with cat calendars and birthday
cake for the receptionist. We were dying
from heat, gas station diets, and
Marlboros. Their souls died young, but
their bodies would go on another seventy
or eighty years, assuming the
apocalypse would not happen before
then, just staring at blue screens, neither
alive nor dead, zombies in skirts and ties.
Sweat poured off my face into my eyes,
stinging, constantly wiping away. The
men fawned over the new girl, wiping
glistening sweat from her forehead and
cleavage, giving momentary distractions
along with the fights and betting. She had
them wrapped around her finger even
more than the boss. It was hot, an
understatement. 

The Water Board

I had a temp job
with the California Water Board
but I was a grungy piece of shit
smelling of cigarettes and Paisano,
a cheap Gallo chianti
I’d swig over my shoulder
as I crept along in my 4 door Nova
Those would have been the days
accept for
the unmitigated misery
“We expect professional attire,”
said my temp boss
“Is this okay?” I asked
“Um, I guess.”
My flannel shirt was purple and brown
it was the ugliest shirt in the world
Why would I wear
a shirt that ugly?
Because I was exhausted
and it was
the only clean thing
about me.

Haunted

I miss them
their bodies
their softly yielding 
bodies
their lovely
lively
lips
that I somehow managed
to fill
for a while

But when I think of them afterwards
I think of their teeth
imprinted on me

Smiles glowing behind red eyelids
shut against the sun
buried in layer upon layer of summer
days
turned cold
I still yearn for
with digging hands

I used to only think how good it was 
to have many lovers

Now, sometimes, I wonder
if I have only become
the architect 
of a large, empty house.

But What Would Live Instead?

Without eyes he haunts you. 
He finds your every dream
and turns it into blackness.
And before he disabuses you of your hope,
he drills new sockets through your skull,
so a new pair of unlighted eyes 
can look into his silent soul
and see there nothing.

HST proudly presents Komodo Dragon Tongue, double-pronged poems by Catfish McDaris & Ryan Quinn Flanagan.

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SEXY DWARFS

Going to a brothel
On Calatravas Street
We went up the stairs
To the first floor.
We rang the bell
And a couple appeared
A man and woman
Like sheep
That were Asian, from Indonesia
As they said
With whom we agreed
The price of sex
Which was twenty euros.
When they called the girls
To see which one we’d get
We were surprised
To see that they were dwarfs
All of them, about ten
Wearing short dresses
Dragging their breasts on the ground.
One after another
Jumping around us
They sang to us:
-Come on, sir, to my pussy
We’ll do it in bed.
We have good teeth
To suck you off.
My friend and I looked at each other
As if saying
Without saying a word:
-We can’t fuck sexy dwarfs.
The girls circled around us three times
Feeling to see if we had an erection
Jumping for joy at first
Then, silent in sorrow
For not being able to get anything out
When they heard us 
Telling the pimp sheep
That we would return tomorrow.
The little ones went inside
All the way to the kitchen
Looking tired
Listening to one of them say:
-What bad luck
Not being able to enjoy a cock.
We’ll have to do it
With a spoon.

Scarcity

She always showed up with a suitcase and a story.

The rest of her luggage was left behind on a bus.

Or a man held her belongings hostage, refusing
to release them until she paid him or slept with him.

Or a livery cab driver rode off with all her possessions
packed away in the trunk and she didn’t know his name.

Poor Karyn.

Poor Karyn with a ‘y’.

Even in the rock n roll world, there are lonely men,
short on looks and long on cash. Or so it seemed
to poor little Karyn with a ‘y’. One conversation
and they were taking selfies cheek to cheek.

The men appeared blissful in the photos,
wide grins alongside her fake toothy smile.

Another couple of shots and she and her suitcase
had taken up residence in their apartments.

A few days or a week later, she gave them the cold shoulder
and refused to leave until they paid her. If they didn’t,
she said she’d cry rape. The men were scared. They paid.

She rolled into the Treehouse one summer night.
Informed my friend Don that she needed to put her
suitcase in the trunk of his car. Don knew better.

Not a chance, he said, and walked away.

She sat down on the settee, opposite the small
round table where I’d rested my shot of whiskey.

Gave me the smile and requested that I remove
my drink since she was newly sober and tempted.

Then get the fuck out of the bar, I said.

She’s still up to her old tricks but not down here.

Karyn with a ‘y’ has finally moved on.

Montpelier Song

I used to go to The Black Door
every Friday to see Nicole. 
She was tall 
and slightly nordic 
or nordic once removed, 
a nose like a golden shovel 
of all the best lines, 
eyes in a dream state
cor cordium,  
fearful symmetry. 
One night when the streets were dead 
and the moon like a lonely cab
I got drunk 
and asked her to go to Iceland 
and she said 
stop being cryptic —forget 
Iceland. 
I’m yours, presently. 
The music is good 
and the snow 
undressing 
with just the right amount 
of emotional 
catastrophe.

Leftover Cherry Pie

got a goddamn brilliant
bestselling nonlinear novel
burning a hole in my hot little pocket
but I’m too enraged and engorged
to pull it out
no one would believe me
“you’re old, sit down”
“it’s probably a self-indulgent memoir in disguise”
“you shop too much”
“you’re gravity’s whore”
so I wallow in the four of cups
stone cold sober
feeling superior to writers with agents
and Paris infused selfies
“LOOK AT ME DRINKING CHAMPAGNE ON THE EIFFEL TOWER, BITCH!”
oh sweet constipated jesus
the purity of obscurity!
baby let me tell ya
it is more delicious
than leftover
cherry pie