She said “eclectic” tastes and I
Thought, “Sweet!” cinched up my girdle, and
Moved the movie script in my head
Into production. The air was
Autumn-rich, something dead again.
She hauled out a barrel, churning
Like cats in a Maytag, I closed
My eyes, held my breath, dove right in.
Death is an end of possibilities
and a beginning of all fictions
though the living often fear
reveling in this potential.
Good manners trump unabashed ego
save for the occasional syphilitic philosopher
or errant office “careerist”.
The edge doesn’t exist; it bleeds
In torrents as we hover like
Meat in the sandwich subjected
To physics and whims, dolor and
Perfidy, yet our claws, despite
Our gnawing still click clack where the
World stops like bullets popping
And reach back with the slightest hope.
Inscrutability is a
Craft, not just a passion I say
Feeding the card reader at the
Parking garage, waiting for the
Gate to lift, a Midway con in
Reverse, like taking best of five
In tic tac toe against yourself.
Do you have any cash on you?