Whorehouse Steps

It's a long walk up the whorehouse stairs.

She waits in that room every night.

Don't matter who limbers up those stairs.

He sips the last of the bottle dropping it at his feet.

The shattering glass chases out of his mind the thoughts of a whore.

It was never the size of the wound

But the size of the Sin that stole her sleep.

When you let them write a check for your soul,

You let the Devil swallow you whole.

He knew the devil well. 

She took him in hopes of learning something.

Neither could spell the word God.

But they raged and ravaged against each other.

Sweat mixing with the blood of broken hearts.

And he loved her, but he left her.

And she loved him, but she took on the next one.

As whores always must.

The Monster

It's the monster that I am.
Born from demon not from woman.
Smoke my cigarette, let the burlesque show roll on.
Endangering the soul, fill it up with lies.
It's the monster that I am.
Standing nude before another.
The trade your good Lord built me for.
High class calls it gigolo, I'm just an everyday whore.

It's the monster that I am.
List your desires, pay no mind.
I'll keep going and going.
The show never stops.
You can keep the money when you're done. 
Can you please just hold me?
Yes, hold the monster that I am.

Bad Men

She walked across the bar as if nothing around her mattered, the multitude just petals at a Goddess’ feet. Slipping past him like a forgotten, hidden piece of art falling through his hands. Her gaze shifted in his direction and he hid, behind anything but his shame. She greeted the small congress of men there for her disposal. Delicate hands grasping, touching until she reached him. The furor of jealousy exploded inside him without hesitation. Tall, sandy blond hair. Chiseled jawline. His skin tight and tanned. Pecs and biceps and everything a woman wants wrapped in designer jeans and a tailored shiny black shirt. Probably a millionaire too. And her, a mere glimmer in the constellation of women lost in his stone grey eyes. He would have her that night. She reeked of demeaning consent.

How could she? Did she not have a heart? A simple mediocre soul? Did she not care the dozens of times he held the door open for her as she glided into the building? All the times he whispered “hi” as they rode the elevator? He’d managed to keep the rest of them away. They were bad. Bad men. They’d bother her no more. Never again. He kept her vigil in the night. Hidden in the walls. Her door locks arcane, easy to pick. The temperature in her flat always cool. The refrigerator stocked with organic this and that and the hip water the movie stars all drank. He never hurt her. Never even touched her as he listened to her sleep. He loved her. But this one, this surfer dream boy, he’d proved a difficult foe. Caught him unprepared and reached her and now she packed her things and was leaving with him. Almost in his arms. Leaving him forever. Forever.

He felt the crowd around him. Like an octopus attacking him, dragging him to the deep. Like so many times before, but not this time. He would save her. Keep her safe from that bad man. He pulled his knife from his boot. The bone handle broke from the last time he used it. The blade sharp and bloody. He never bothered to clean it afterwards. No one saw him approach the couple in the glimmer and the dark of the club. The spray of blood landed soft and angelic across her face. Like a bubble bursting at her face. He stared at her eyes as he continued to saw at the surfer dream boy’s throat. Would she notice him now?

Always After

All of us must fall.

Crumble off the masterpiece we painted

in pastel blues and reds and black. Always black.

Faded like the love you preached

yet couldn't muster.

Holding on to what could have been,

not one single tangible fact.

Just your lying eyes and all we made

on all those blackened nights, lighting the skies with your eyes.

When your body knelt and prayed for me,

calling me to lay in your hellish bed.

A body burning in the sin of all the 

men that took you, then and after. Always after.

Is Floyd Mayweather TBE? or merely undefeated?

The Best Ever. Many years ago I listened to a Howard Stern show in which he said if you want a title just call yourself that and repeat it ad nauseam. People will eventually just take it for a fact. He used Michael Jackson's moniker of King of Pop as an example. Then to prove his point he proceeded to call himself the King of All Media. Soon everyone called him that. Years ago Floyd Mayweather called himself the best ever and people started to believe it. Now every time he wins the arguments erupt. Is Floyd the best ever? The week before his fight with Manny Pacquiao Floyd even went as far as to say that Muhammad Ali was not the greatest. Floyd Mayweather has been masterful spreading this propaganda and stirring the debate. That's what he's supposed to do. That's what pays him and builds his legacy. It's the rest of us that are eating the cake and not realizing it's just dust.

The best ever is simply an opinion. There is no true basis of grading or comparison. Muhammad Ali is adored by fans and regarded as the greatest boxer ever. He captured America's imagination and hearts by first, by standing on principle against the Vietnam War then by his legendary and epic battles against Joe Frazier, George Foreman, Ken Norton Jr., Sonny Liston and countless others. He is the original loudmouth. Everything that fans hate about Floyd Mayweather Jr., the money, brashness, cockiness, Ali did it 100 times worse. He called Joe Frazier a monkey, an uncle Tom, mocked his nose and lips. But Ali bled, sacrificed his body, took horrendous beatings for his legacy and for the fans. If you watched an Ali fight you were assured a spectacle you could tell your grandchildren about. His first battle against Joe Frazier showed us what all other champions will forever be measured by. But it also made Ali human. The huge ego was battered, beaten almost unrecognizable, yet Ali rose each time and took his beating. That's what boxing fans will always love, a man who overcomes all the adversity they can not. Physically, few heavyweights could match his overall skill and even fewer his heart. That's what makes him the best ever in most minds. But more knowledgeable boxing fans don't choose Ali as the best ever. The consensus is Joe Louis.

I could write for days on the accomplishments of Joe Louis. They're immeasurable. In a time when African-Americans were still not accepted, Joe Louis demolished Max Schmeling in two rounds. He beat the Germans. He beat Hitler. But he retired with losses on his record. That seems to be what Floyd Mayweather Jr. and his legion of fans cling to in order to call him the best ever. He's undefeated. Well, so was Rocky Marciano and more recently Joe Calzaghe. No one mentions them as the best ever. It's not Floyd's fault. It's the age we live in.

We live in the now. Every day there is a clip or a Vine or whatever is cool at the moment claiming "here!" this is the funniest, the best, the craziest, the coolest, the whatever until the next hour when our attention span has waned and something replaces the last best ever. So give Mayweather some credit for keeping the discussion going this long. But he's not the best ever.

Mayweather is retiring undefeated. That's all. He fought some of the best of his time. He is superbly talented. Maybe the most talented boxer of all time. With a ring IQ that no one can match. But what he truly is, is a businessman. He marketed himself and took chances to maximize his income before his time was up. He won every fight but very few fans beyond those that only loved the persona and the lifestyle. He never risked it all the ring. He never laid it all on the line as we like our heroes to, as Ali and Hagler and Cuevas and Chavez and Gatti did for us. But he didn't have to. Don't blame him. He fought some of the best boxers of his era and they could barely make him sweat. Nobody, no one brought out the best in him and I'm sure it's there. I'm sure if a boxer appeared that pushed him, Floyd would rise and show us brilliance. I'm not sure he would win, but we would all say "see? That's what a champion does. He rises." and maybe we would love him, watching him be knocked down a peg. That would make him human like us. Instead, we watched him cruise to victory every single time. We watched him batter women and laugh at them and the legal system. We watched him smother us all with his greatness. All Floyd did was win, thinking that would make him the Best Ever. His every other step only made the common man hate him even more.

Mayweather fought with more pressure than most. Boxers fight to win. For a belt. For a ranking. Floyd fought for his legacy. For his family and friends and for his future. Yes, he was paid more than any other boxer in history but it was he who brokered those deals and put himself in that position. It was he who realized making himself the promoter would grow his income exponentially. He took those risks. And with every fight the next big payday was at stake. Hundreds of millions. A loss would end all that because the only reason we all buy his PPV is to watch him lose. Once that appeal is lost Floyd Mayweather TBE is over.

That's a lot of pressure. Just ask Manny Pacquiao. He seemed to wilt in the biggest fight of his career. Floyd Mayweather Jr. deserves credit for that. In every single fight, he showed up and fought his fight. He won. He just didn't win the respect of fans. I'm sure 300 or 400 million in the bank make up for that.