Within the tapestry of life
goes the Mind:
the rest of flesh and bone
remain cat-like;
a sleeping prostitute
of time.

And within heaven all of the
interesting people are missing,
or so says Nietzsche.

But within hell most everyone
says the intersection of Canal
& Mott Streets in Manhattan are
a killer.

And a chorus of drunks fooled
by numbness and unencumbered

by care drown out the naked lunch
of fear and rejection.

That’s the mind singing, you
know.

So few sensuous souls and
so many meaty mannequins!

:: 04-07-2018 ::