Buried Money & Other Intellectual Pursuits
Out the westward door into the infernal howling of dry wind and gray-slicked Coyote shadows, hunting yesterday's promises like the bargain of leftovers and day old bread. Sharpened, ridiculed, hungry, scedaddling toward the relentless mirage of eternal hope, where heat spills over the horizon, like a drunken Eskimo making his slow journey toward Mecca to die. He kills the dastard leprechauns who stand in his way, the malcontent fairies also, the weak-willed giants who grown fat on the morsels of the weak, and the tyrant saints with their mendicant sycophants. Between gulps of chili sauce and testicle ice-cream, he sniffs in the air of stale lies, the precursory chants designed to drive the masses toward certain intended and unintended consequences. He dodges the cool gazes of statesmen whores, who've commoditized desire to the lowest bidder and depression in her afterthought. The tongue offers singers while the poet malingers.
Last edited by spshane; 08-13-2018 at 02:54 PM..