my room is so small, the mice are hunchbacked

my room is so small, the mice are hunchbacked. it has become my only entertainment, my lullaby. watching the ballet of starving kysophic rodents isn’t so terrible because they move slowly, making the show seem to last for hours in this, my crimson cell. my own personal Nutcracker and I am Hoffman and Tchaikovsky, “yes Clara! yes Fritz! brise, desous, desus! Yes, Yes!” i’ve watched them share wood shavings that I know they thought were crumbs but in the red light look like ligaments, I hadn’t eaten more than half a biscotti that was left on someone’s plate, a toe of bread, at the café rue royal. i just somehow ended up here. never searched for a home or moved furniture or clothes in, I don’t even know the address, just that it’s beneath the adult bookstore on Sterling Ave, in fact I think that’s it. it’s a posh locale for the down and out and among them I am king. i know this because I have morals and kings need them to direct. i have a functioning moral compass, while most of theirs, my subjects, lead them above into the bookstore store nudie booths or a corner in the back where they beat off to the backs of video boxes, I am directed beneath it, to my feverish chamber, yet I remain above them. the store is open twenty-four hours and most interesting in the daytime, when the rose in my room sleeps and the dancing mice rest, “aplomb! aplomb!”. i watch and ridicule the hasty three-pieced businessmen run down the street from where they parked for a quick “lunch break”. “Chasse! Allegro, Allegro”. and the soccer moms who park the minivan outside for “just a minute” while they buy whatever is in those sad black bags, while their children have no clue that they will one day rest their libidos in the sticky arms of this store. at night Sterling Ave. becomes sad. out of work clowns in dirt makeup line the drive and drink from brown bags outside the door until they are swept away by a sandstorm of stingy sleep beneath our cherry moon. but I stay in the basement with the mice and sit nude on my rocking chair, a wicker throne, watching my rodents of rond de jambe perform. my throne lurches and reels until the copulating undulation excites me. and in the rose red light I look at myself, standing, sweating, and bare like a raw steak marbled with veins and hair, and I admire my royalty. there are two windows, small and rectangular, in my room, close to the ceiling. i keep them closed to keep the smell out. the cigarette smoke reaches the ceiling and collects into crimson lined clouds. the noise outside never dies. naked in the blood red light I do pushups until my arms fall off. two sets of twenty and I laugh at how my dick is the only part that touches the ground and I wonder how far my nipples are from the dusty cement floor. i follow with two sets of fifty sit-ups. the cement still feels cold although my room is a hazy sauna. and against my bare ass I feel a glacial rush of sweaty eroticism as I melt into my own small salty puddle. sometimes, naked in the lust light, I invite the women who stand on the corner into my room to watch the dancing mice. i have a mirror and we drink port wine and sometimes forget, and get naked, sweat, and flex in front of it. we all laugh, sometimes we fuck, but we always laugh and they never charge me, “Ballabile, Derriere, Devant! Double Double!”. i am king of the lust light, “32 fouettés en tournant.”

my room is so small, the mice are hunchbacked

Jonathan Acosta-Rubio

New Orleans, United States

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adult ballet

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