Jupiterian Orbit – A Poem

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
pen taps
(tap-te-tap tap-te-te-tap tap) to the
Underworld Boss for a dance
floor hustle.

They strike me as the unruly sort
of couple.

Oh, but your be stilled aerie becomes a gaseous
membrane; a monument to
the proportional
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
conversation.
They are the shadows of a catastrophe.
They keep us ahead of the
curve.

“I think these crows here mate in a
Jupiterian orbit. If not, what would be
the point?”

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
one.

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