Check the thesaurus for my horoscope.
I’m an associate by guilt,
at the table,
bragging on about how cells lock down
the open frontier.
Wild West Maître D’ signals cryptic
(tap-te-tap tap-te-te-tap tap) to the
Underworld Boss for a dance
They strike me as the unruly sort
Oh, but your be stilled aerie becomes a gaseous
membrane; a monument to
distance of sanity. I force myself into the
water beads on my vodka tonic glass and
absorb the world.
Little eyes and thorny beaks
interrupt an otherwise pleasant
They are the shadows of a catastrophe.
They keep us ahead of the
“I think these crows here mate in a
Jupiterian orbit. If not, what would be
My hand is bloody and I forgot the name
of the waiter.
We partisan to a fault so to
jettison the rest to posterity.
I don’t know an early hour from a late