ONE NIGHT STAND

The pride one moment
and the void the next
with an empty text
repeating itself
each gigolo night
after night
in a routine
of not even listening
to a date
blind or not
on the spot or off the record
about how your half sister
was born in an iron lung
or reborn in a convent
because there was no rent
only rented garments
how you were a great
gentlemen of Verona
as a stud understudy,
or wanted to be a secret agent
on the James Bond set
or how you were an artist
repainting "The Yellow Christ"
by Gaugin in a forgery
or a once member of the clergy
in a pawn shop black robe
to get in good for a weekend
with jet set religious mentalities
but whose middle aged
morality play was the theater
of the absurd,
soon you were toast
or compost
with all your end games
came to haunt you
as you flaunted yourself
out to all sexes
just for the money
lacking any testimony
who you ever were.