ABOUT THE POEM: At the end of the long confession, after cataloguing forty years of triumphs that bought him everything except a woman’s willing touch, Ronie Dinosaur arrives at the only altar he trusts: the brothel. There, in dim rooms that smell of cheap perfume and mercy, he finds the last honest transaction left in the world. No games, no masks, no need to pretend he understands the rules of seduction. Just money handed over, bodies briefly joined, and—for a paid moment—the roaring extinction inside him goes quiet. He calls these women saints in reverse: they save men who cannot save themselves. Without them, the Madonna–Whore split, the Indian household’s locked bedroom doors, the kindergarten of worldlywiseness he never attended—all of it would have killed him long ago, not with a bullet but with slow starvation of skin and soul. So he blesses them the only way he knows how: with filthy gratitude and a joke so dark it passes for prayer. And when anyone asks where a creature like Ronie Dinosaur hides when the city lights go out, the answer is simple. Only he knows. Only he needs to. Because even God has stopped looking.