It's a payday gimmick algaecide


Revenge is the directorate, riven as it is

with amoral Albanian quotation marks.

Few of us age, most of us gradate into shadows

of our former kickboxing selves.

The sham is to kick back and savor your mustache

alone or in this billion dollar sheep factory

we call existence.


Look, I'm all for levity and the erosion of

family values, I used to man the pumps

at the municipal Dickens factory. I

attended the best finishing schools

and still my lay-up clanks off the rim.


I look out my door and the sky is juniper

with a money cash-out that only a libertine

could confiscate. The Dixieland band is

playing on my dad's old Girard, or Nat

King Cole and still I feel quarrelsome, muttering

about rabies, Euripides and the fucking

clutch on my '70 Toyota.


This is all well and clumsy, equipping insight

with a set of muttonchops and setting it out

into the orgiastic cantaloupe hoard. My

tortoise has bats in his belfry and kale on his

mouth. The upshot is that we deserve what

we get. And if you believe that I have some

Miss Cleo dust monogamy I'd like to give

to you, free of charge.