I see a parking lot I feel emptiness and potential I'm idling before I ignite then idle again An image of an orange sunset faded by real sunlight There's a parking lot to the left and shrubs in front of the building Gazing down dead eyed in mid-consideration of the pleasure that lies beyond As an almost-robotic movement yields to complete the cycle of pleasure-sought, pleasure-found just as the sun sets and dusky light spreads over the world but can only be seen starkly through a square of window Back in the parking lot Pleasure can be found anywhere I press the gas, accellerate Or I slam the brakes My body wants to keep moving forward My seatbelt (they've only gotten tighter) holds me tautly The sensation is only like pleasure in that there is pressure The pounding, the breathing, the fucking. I can hardly feel it at moments, And not because I’m dissociating (though maybe I am) But really because I can’t feel it inside me I see parking lots I feel emptiness and potential I'm idling before I ignite Then idle again Original Giggle's World Text: I’m thinking about that stretch of Route 9 in Wappingers Falls where you can buy a bong or a 14-inch dildo. I see parking lots. I feel emptiness and potential, I am idling before I ignite then idle again. A man in a sweatshirt and athletic shorts walks by holding a black leather belt that drags on the sidewalk. Its limpness activates images of him whipping it or wrapping it around my neck. Riding along Route 9 is like riding along any other stretch of highway in America, lined with any store you can think of in blocks of mini malls. The smoke shop and the sex shop are sometimes separate from other stores with forgettable lengths of space and trees between them. I stare at Giggles World through images captured by GoogleMaps. It’s one story tall, bleached concrete with little sandy squares on the perimeter of the facade. The sign is worn: an image of an orange sunset faded by real sunlight. There are six panels in two different windows, each with an image of a romantically-involved hetero couple. The door also features a smaller image of a white man in a blue shirt behind a white woman in a white shirt. There is a parking lot to the left and shrubs in front of the building. The electrical line crosses the grass front yard and I spot the Google car camera in a shadow bending northeast on the road signaling that it is late afternoon although the time of year is difficult to discern. Everything is frozen and I am already nostalgic for everyone in their frozen cars, or anyone frozen inside of Giggles, perhaps clutching anal beads in hard plastic, gazing down dead-eyed in mid-consideration of the pleasure that lies beyond the cashier’s casual check for technical malfunction, a gloved-handed Purell wipe, a credit card swipe, a drive home through winding, shaded Hudson Valley roads then the plastic- cracking-and-bedsheets-tossed-aside as an almost-robotic movement yields to complete the cycle of pleasure-sought, pleasure-found just as the sun sets and dusky light spreads over the world but can only be seen starkly through a square of window inside of which pleasure finally settles on a body that is actually still frozen inside of Giggles World. Back in the parking lot, we sit and think vaguely about a destination. I look and see a dog shitting; it slides out ribbed, like anal beads. Ribbing is of course repetition realized in a pattern and pleasure is a pattern too, whether it comes in the form of 11-inch silicone or a soon-to-be- smashed-into-a-doggy-bag piece of shit. Pleasure can be found anywhe- I press the gas and accelerate, or, I slam the brakes and my body wants to keep moving forward but a seatbelt (they’ve only gotten tighter) holds me tautly. The sensation is only like pleasure in that there is pressure. In my dreams, I swing from a rope of anal beads that disappears into darkness above me. In my car, my ass starts to hurt from all the sitting. When he pounds me with my legs up, I stop him not because it hurts but because it is all too much. The pounding, the breathing, the fucking. I can hardly feel it at moments, and not because I’m dissociating (though maybe I am) but really because I can’t feel it inside me. Anal beads wound up inside me, like useless intestines, just an endless string that I can pull out of my ass like a clown pulling cloth from his mouth. - Original Text by Robbie Trocchia, Sampled/Redacted by Max Rollins