Capital Phoenix

I ask Jack what wrong is. Can he quantify it? This is a man whose answers are too specific for pub quiz questions: like the star signs of each of the Spice Girls, how often Matt Damon washes his hands.

Jack says, “I can’t tell you which choice to make, or even label every choice that’s on the table. I can tell you what I want, what I think you want, but then it’s getting into speculation; even Perez Hilton’s not right every single time. And me neither.”

But at church there were such clear rights and wrongs I fell asleep sorry for something, every morning a flu-like guilt squeezing my stomach like a stress-ball in the shape of a heart sure that the pumping action was helping. Then there was only purge, purge, purge.1 in the dark

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We’re Moving On (NaPoWriMo #15)

It precipitates

he TV declares it’s over via foreign policy, kissing wife and off-camera looking

He’s impossible

to get over on six TVs playing simultaneously in your bedroom/office/house

You scrapbook

the tour bus start and the White House end and restaurant cleared security

Battery-less remote

moving on

Why I Fired You (NaPoWriMo #13)

No list of tardy slips
toilet trysts
CCTV alerts
locker swaps
sick texts
staff night out
faux pas.

Didn’t shop floor skive
slag managers off
short customer change
steal stock
sleep out back
take trash
leave early
unapproved holiday
aid robbery.

Just, every sense word
thick lip spoken
when I could see tongue
was my downfall, pitfall, penance
defined my Father’s purgatory
Minister’s limbo
siphoned my blood
and sieved all the gold bits out.

Now, oxygen deprived
iron low and over.
grant