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EX LITEROTICA
Outside the Ex Literotica hotel
where I work as a security guard
transients in ant-like fashion
gather to search for any left-overs
in the trash cans & cigarette urns
where their dark fingers scoop up butts
or still-edible food scraps
to tide them over for the night --
& during the sweltering summer
the mostly male transients sleep
under the cement parking garage stairs.
Huddled on cardboard-pieced beds
while others bring low-life Vegas hookers
for sordid stand-up sex-in-shadows
near the far parking lot walls secluded
from the ordinary view of hotel guests.
(For it is out of a cathedral of eros
that the hardest things are
bargained for, in life's existence
of wild digital consonances leading
to ultimate zen-soul orgasm
when the catch-all re-defines itself
into sere loose ends
yet fusing for an instant.)
I'd beneficially nod at the plunger,
wondering who the sacrifices will be
mummified by room dust residue
toxic enough to keep desert predators out.
What guest's toilet will overflow tonight
I wonder, patrolling the hotel corridors
just before the 5 a.m. fire alarms sound,
sending out the wanton ones to burn.
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