by Harry


I was Davey Jones today,

choking all the lies out their gullets,

not letting up until the reality came spewing out

across the conference room

to drip and slide down the bare whiteboard.

Progress at last.

Last Friday I was Fantine,

exposed to the whips of the world

I belted my soul to the vast expance

of the confines of my portable universe, lined with

leather interior and a $9 steering wheel cover.

The impact of metal on bumper and

rubber shatters the dream of her voice into

my far less miserable

pained reality.

But we are all fine for now,

because tomorrow I could be Wolverine,

collar up, chops fluffed and

ready for a fight against eternity

with no cares should the man in black

come to my door.

Entwine the forlorn threads of

the uncertain prospect before me with

cheap wine and cigar smoke in the wind,

so long as,

for a moment a day,

I can be some other than me.

Ah, what a vacation it is

and will be.


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