at the temple of the underpaid prostitutes

We unpack each heart with care,
using words composed of honey
to pry open the chest cavities.
We gently press our fingerprints
into the tender ventricles
(so malleable, so vulnerable)
in order to ensure
a true connection
and then
we test the heart strings
for any weaknesses,
we really make them sing.

This way, no fear, no failure,
and a good time will be had.

In the words of the prophet,
"Maximum pleasure is guaranteed."

Have you read our sacred writings?

"Please rest assured
that we consider
august and sacred
each & every heart."

So says our big brochure.

hooray for entropy!

Don't look for me at my desk,
not today.
Don't much feel like workin'.

Instead, depressed,
gravitating towards
Thanos

whom I find in his kitchen
whipping up both
black omelettes and
nihilistic plans.

whee!

Morning arrives with the "big dog" stiff and full,
pointing like a lightning rod.
Been happening a lot lately
but at my age
this frequent morning tumescence is not to be expected.

Could be because I'm drinking less?

Could be a cause for some celebration, I suppose,
could make me feel somewhat younger.
But then I move around
and the knees creak and the lower back gives up a twinge
and I know just where I am.

Post it

Post it note(Photograph)

Thank you, for your interest.
I am not here at the moment
but you can remember me in
the meantime, i shall surely
return at the appropriate moment.

Post it

Post it note(A)

She's from Buffalo, by the
way of Spain, Puerto Rico,
North Carolina, & Rhode Island.

All destinations performed a brief function.
She tends to get upset when Autumn
replaces Summer, not knowing
that Winter will soon arrive.

She doesn't travel lightly,
all baggage is thoroughly inspected.

Her ticket has been punched, stamped, &
duly noted by the conductor.

Post it

Post it note(bedroom door)

I've left all mental facilities at the entrance.
The general upkeep of my life is limited
to brief moments of lucidity.

I couldn't help but dip into insanity
even if it was just for a taste.

"le moyen age"

Red spaghetti stain
on her dress
near the waist.
He was
too eager,
rushed to embrace
too soon.
This upset the table,
and the cats,
and now just look
at the state of things.

Well.
It was an old dress,
she had resisted the urge
to buy something new
just for him.

She first wore this black
designer knock-off
the day her mother set out
her father’s remaining clothes
on the bed, preparing them
for their farewell.
Uncles, cousins, brothers, male friends
had already been through the closets,
had left, leaving behind
empty hangars and a few scattered
items. Shirts, coats, pairs of pants.

Now, looking down
at the stain,
it could almost be
someone else’s dress,
it has been
that many years.