01 by Ray Ogar

>>> COPYRIGHT 2001

she traveled the
shortest roads
like a lazy bike,
all clunk and thunk
shoes like boxes
hair like byzantine braids
or some other faux
demigod glamour
usually only affected
on the brittle chalk
runways of
fashion and drugs...
that is, she never
used but dealt
her wares like
glass appendages
trading them for
blunts and low cancer cigarettes.
tonight she threaded her way
along the tight asses of malls
and deep rifts of adult book stores.
selling wears.
“check the spelling on that,” she’ll say.
wear me.
leave me.
move on.
some guys peel her off like
color coded plastic wrap armor--
a few of her younger trades simply
try and tackle her from behind—
apparently they like the boxy, silicon wafers
she spits from her mouth after
much too long uploads on low-tech mainframes.
getting a new personality upgrage maybe
or a slight adjustment in the tight end.
perhaps a reassignment of some of the lipid
sacs surrounding her left breast (somehow this
is supposed to enhance her already ultra
desirable form?)
she stops the youngest kid from
lagging his tongue,
him trying to french some wafer from a
spot more titwrench than twat.
she slaps him away,
then nats of light buzz her,
the hoards must be logging on to her
current location,
she just settles into the commercial glow—
only a moment.
but soon she steps into a skin barber.
a lather gathers up her body.
but only after the rougher,
balding gentleman front
takes her weight,
her shoe size,
her length
and width.
and then the lather:
full and rich,
foaming from light acids and
dense deep cleansers.
she waits,
takes a smoke,
then steps out of her skin.
looks back,
a too wry smile and
snickers as she glances at an
exact duplicate of herself
crumble to the floor.
the gentleman barber takes
a small hand held vacuum and
quickly removes the several
trillion cell husk that waits near
his feet.
a tidy profit?
a new turn?
she takes two stacks of cash
and a light fuck in the back room.
three mintues later
and the skin barber even hands her an
extra stack of cash.
she didn’t know her shell and dna
were that popular.
now she steps into alley or side street.
her legs carry her off and
already she notices a preteen glam
girl exiting the shop’s front.
that younger girl’s skin now hidden thick
under a copy of her own.
translucent around the cheek
and thin around the waist.
another snicker
and she just moves lazily against
the bad choices others make
with their lives.
on to another street.
or another corner to trade.