Low End Highroller

there’s this sinister part of me

a part which

takes a sick

kind of joy

in watching these people scurry

like mad children

across the floor

they come here

to live a fantasy and

they believe that

fantasy

they feed the house their every cent

cashing checks and

taking out advances

with the dream

the hope

of hitting the

jackpot

there’s a system

a cycle

running over

themselves

retracing the same steps

night after night

it doesn’t matter though

even the ones

who defy the odds

find a way to lose

betting and betting

til the pot dwindles

leaving them empty

you see the same faces

every evening

reeking of cheap cigars

stale beer

and desperation

scrounging for

loose

quarters nickles

dimes and

pennies

to buy a ticket

this is the business of

enablement

of distancing the guest from

reality

expensive escapism

stretching them thin

wringing them of every last drop

of blood

this is the business of

entitlement

where the peasant is

king

where the eunuch is

virile

whether it be minutes

or hours

most return

teary eyed

exasperated

wondering how they will

make it to next

payday

at least they got a

nice panini press and

ten percent off at

the buffet

Panties

found a pair of discarded panties

violet lace and floral pattern

sheer and splayed

contorted against pitted asphalt and rock salt

i don’t know how they found their way there but

it’s been two weeks and

they haven’t moved

that first morning they

caught my attention

bright clear morning and warm

out near that dumpster

which i found amusing if

not somewhat appropriate

later that week it rained

and I made stupid jokes to myself about whether I ever

got a girl as soaked as these were

when the temperature dropped

I returned at night to find

the panties frozen in place

matted

milky-white frost like

a solid sheet of cum

captured in trashy elegance

delicate lace suspended

feeble fibers turned rigid

etched flowers decaying

deprived of the once warm flesh which

they had bloomed from

so eagerly

ripped from the garden

separated

soiled

fated to wilt

to decompose and rise as compost

straying so far from the sun

from a loving hand

from soft skin and

attention

transplanted

to the slums and out-of-sight places

all petals whither

Stick Figure Family With a Shotgun

stick figure family with a shotgun

one wife

two sons

a daughter

two dogs

decal plastered on the side of a

dirt crusted suv

paper white skin

color coordinated

watching from the rear window

driver’s side

gazing with blank soulless eyes

pasted on smiles

waving in uniformity

dad’s reaching for the shotgun

and I can’t help but think how these lunatic faces must scream

when the red of the tail lights hits them in the dark

maybe dad will use that gun on mom

maybe the son in the green shirt

possibly one of the pooches when it shits in the house one too many times

or

take it to work

reassert himself as the man he knows

he is

reclaiming his balls from the emasculating clutch

of corporate culture

who can tell

when he hides his rage behind that smile

when the whole family follows suit

the odd thing about this image though

is how much closer he is to that weapon

than to those around him

Updates and Thoughts

Hi everyone that follows me so far. Recent events have affected my output regularity and stunted my creativity a bit. I’m hoping to get back on a more stable schedule soon and am considering adding a bit more variety to the content I put out. I’m curious if there’s anything anyone would like to see more of, as well as general thoughts and opinions. I’m looking forward to putting more out and hearing from whoever responds. Thanks for the support so far.