It’s funny how when they're 
laid out like this before 
you—butterflied, boned, and 
splayed on the cutting board, 

quietly speaking and 
reeking so subtly 
of death—funny how much 
they resemble that same

symbol of the very 
thing which they once covered, 
which no longer beats, that 
symbol of a symbol 

of life and love and how 
appropriate it is 
after all, because 
I do love life and yes, 

I do indeed love boobs. 

(Just in case anyone has been thinking that I have been getting 
terribly serious, "deep" or (gods forbid) "full of pathos", 
this will undoubtedly divest said persons of any such silly notions...)


I stand at the intersection of
compassion and self interest,
thinking how life can make

such an ugliness of us all
or is it how we make such
an ugliness of life?

Cheeks change from
cherubic to sallow,
hour by hour.

From jaundiced to
jaundiced we go, from
sweet to salt to sour.