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When the marriage ended
Max was away writing a book about the endocrine system.
By the time he got back,
Ophelia and her mother had already packed
a massive steel shipping container full of all their stuff.
He was left with virtually nothing.
She gave him 3 forks, 3 chipped bowls,
and a set of green plates that she didn’t like.
After that, she would drop by periodically
to take something else.
Like picking treats off a carcass.
One time she showed up unannounced
and took most of the rose bush.
“I took a course in roses” she said,
“I can propagate these.”
Then she came by again
and took two huge pieces of the cactus.
“I found a great recipe.”
A third time, she went into his closet
and took all of his silk underwear
(a gift from her mother on his birthday).
“My mother needs these back.
She’s making Romulus and Remus
little outfits. You don’t mind do you?
It’s not like you ever wear them.”
There were stains on his jacket, coffee or wine. They had been there so long he didn’t see them anymore.
“Happy Father’s Day, Dad.” Eve said.
She handed him a bouquet of yellow and red flowers. Sunflowers, zinnias and some carnations.
“Read the card, it’s funny.”
Jack opened the envelope and read it and laughed.
“Yes, you do.” He said remarking on something she had written. It was well after three in the afternoon. He had made himself pancakes and poached eggs in the morning to celebrate, alone.
This used to be a day like his birthday where there was some overture to make him feel loved. But since the marriage had ended, he had to make do on his own.
Eve came through in the end and miracle of miracles also did the dishes.
There is a God.
pinstripes, dark blue.
the tie looks like it was dry heaved.
Cologne or perfume, hard to tell which.
Smells like turpentine.
“Now listen to me, germ.”
“You’re a big boy now.
You thought you were going to get something,
and what you got was hustled.”
“So be a man and pick up your phone
and call Hidden Hills and ask your wife
or your friend to come get you.”
“And don’t tell them any cute little stories
about losing your wallet.”
“I wasn’t born yesterday, either.”
It flew off the wheel
on 7th Avenue.
She was a French woman, very sweet.
It cut her rather badly.
Her shin was bleeding.
Alex, Yevgeny, and Max puled over.
Alex jumped out of the car.
“I’m so sorry!” said Alex.
“It’s not your fault.”
“What’s your name?”
“Genevieve, you need to go to the hospital.
can we take you?”
“Yes, s’il vous plaît.” she was beginning to feel faint.
They drove like Banshees
to Saint Vincent Hospital.
“Should we wait for you?”
Harlie, the AI was acting funny.
Like some hacker had
slipped him some digital windowpane.
You could tell by
the benignly sinister comments,
and teeth grinding.
(Teeth of solid steel, mind you.)
“What if we can’t get him back?” asked Max
“I knew this guy at boarding school,
he dropped acid and was never the same,
total psychotic break.”
“Bird flu must have been a cover,” said Harlie.
“Feed the signal” he added cryptically.
Cartwright time traveled
to a 7 Eleven on the corner of
Heart Attack and Vine.
There was a series of outbursts,
At first, they thought
it was fireworks,
but it wasn’t.
It was gun play
and the protagonist
was hit in the leg,
which was kind of
Why couldn’t he
have just flipped
and told the prosecutors
that the night would never end.
In the moonlight,
in the irises
with Pachanga Maria
and St. Michael.
Who defended us in battle
from those who seek the ruin of souls.
Protected us against
the wickedness and snares
of the Father of Lies.
The dragon prevailed not
and was asked to leave.
Our prayers were answered,
the night is still alive.
A rustling in the nasturtium,
hoping to make a run to the wood pile.
Tommy could smell him from the porch,
lunging into the air like a high jumper.
Over and over and over again.
“He’s killed three of them so far,
his breed is bred to hunt rats, you know.”
“They aren’t rats.” said Meta Jane.
“It’s not right, they’re no match for him.”
“He’s earning his keep, saving the garden.”
She stopped talking,
not wanting to dignify that last comment.
Fidgeted and ran her fingers
gently across her forehead.
She really needed that ASMR video
almost craved it.
Was that supposed to be a joke?
Here’s the thing,
That means wild.
I will not conform to your
contrarian, bourgeois, Marxist,
modernist, existentialist, rhymer,
I have my own algorithm.
It’s not binary.
It’s wild. I’m feral.
Ha ha ha ha ha.
Could I trouble you
for something to eat?