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Milk

He whispers sexual favors in a hustler's ear
while digging for unfiltered cigarettes.
He accepts twenty bucks from a Friday night lover.
The tips of sugar daddy tongues

lick the pierced belly button
of a washboard stomach.

Cigarette ashes are dead
like electrocuted insects at untied shoelaces
of dirty Reeboks.

Men hustle for yellow-haired asses,

for a back seat blow-job and lines of cocaine
on a sun cracked dash board
pick pockets bone clean for eight-inch thick wallets.

The federal faces of Benjamin Franklin
are tucked in beige bras

between prosthetic titties of

Transsexual whores in red-hot wigs who
spit profanity like pits from prunes.

Stiletto heels are pressed
against plaid shirts stained

with gravy from a truck
driver who lies drunk,

slumped in a pool
of puke in the parking-lot

of Motel El Comino.

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