Valentines Day, I played poker alone in a bowling alley and smoked Parliament cigarettes, and then of course, wrote.
Stuart Unger and his wife
She gazed, parted lips with none of the stark contrast amid, just the acrid green of burnt panel lighting on dusty walls diffracted. We played cards together and she knew the bicycle I was about to ride. Kimberly, what an ugly and expected name, looked stagnant, fossilized, and that’s when I knew she had an utmost assurance in the reds. Noticing that allowed me the chance to realize the amphetamine was still coursing, ultra perceptive. The river floods, I’m having a hard time, but I feel the breeze of possibility and find a bank that folds into the froth enough to grasp. I reorient, and hope the gusts will diffuse the boldness, only a hard wrought 30 seconds will tell. Assess me with a psychological exchange, pretense, and I’ll conceal our familiarity with the subtlety of an invented pantomime. The water level rises and I have a premonition of a presidential assassination. Would the first lady be that malicious? Only time will tell, oblivious to the statistics, Kim waiting to strike. I recline for the venoms crawl. Apex, climax, definitive venir. Thank you for the addiction to luck, no time to resent the vice when the hands are encircled, reaping the seeds of justified indolence, now provocative, significant, and the gasoline cash. Yes, I will still take her home and love her after gentle coaxing; Kims passion for the suits will never run as deep as this obsession. These pockets are full, would you like a drink or a late night meal my dear? God your name is ambrosia on my tongue.