The FieldCharles Jensen
Where you still find cars with dorsal fins, taillights glowing cat's-eye thin. Such circular movements, for so long, become steps of dance. Here at The Field, hookers bend forward on stalks of slender high heeled boots. Where love and knives are still sharing the same breath. Agrado: she is a waste of good rhinoplasty. The movements of oil derricks in field— a rocking pump. Where lipstick smears after blood dries: money travels light, travels first. Agrado, a waste of good rhinoplasty. The eye begins to swell. Manuela—a kind of nurse—arrives, shooing men like plague rats. The smell of body fluid: coppery, bleachy clean. A place of shivered groans. There is night. There are the hookers about to drop from their shoes, fake blushes— at dawn, each man goes home alone, a snake of taillights uncoiling on the long, gray road. Manuela arrives—nurse mother, wrenching some poor high heel from the soft soil. The girls titter back home, flatten out wads of crumbled pesetas to buy their eggs, maybe a coffee.
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