I watched the
ceiling fan spin, slow down, and stop to hover over the familiar.
See, the slap stick
of gaping why's
in sensitive throes
why's from new found foes,
to inspect the rogue
impulse prodigal.
See, the dark
limerick, as it tries
in sensual blows
it tries from stagnant shoals
to inject a taste
for the conjugal.
There is no
armistice, no apartheid for the slime of apathy.
There is no justice,
no jurisprudence or
epiphany.
There is only
resolve, and the Specter of a Red Corvette.
And the Specter of a
silk corset.
And the smell of a
Russian Roulette, when the stakes are high and your time is up.
When the music
stops, and the chairs filled up.
It's just that
simple.
Over.
It's just that
simple.
Next player.
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