Thank You, Brown Recluse

She bit my torso while I slept,

feasting away toward my sweetbreads.

Forever ending my career

spearing cold, culled foul carcasses.

Prying from me necrotized love

I could not incise on my own.

Stuffing daily with silver gauze,

opiates, and Scotch; oozing puss.

Giving excuse for frequent steaks

and pondering a life in Seoul

that I never wanted or lived.

And for my thirtieth birthday:

banging upward, a decade younger.

And soon, making some real money

fixing ill devised foreign prose.

She had made my year and my life,

but still, I am glad she is dead.

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Too Big For Your Britches

Bruno's neck resembles pancake batter as it spills out of his shirt color while his necktie hangs loose and flaccid. It looked as though it fit him at one time, but he had gotten too fat. He came in at 10:15 AM, fifteen minutes before session and tapped me for all I had learned in the five meetings that I had been in since I had seen him yesterday at 3:30 PM shortly before he left back toward home with the female district aide.

I asked him if he had looked over the position paper I had given him. He said that he glanced at it and I knew he was lying. He asked me if the bill's sponsor had donated to the campaign, and I said that they had. The female district aide had intervened, saying that the bill's opposition would likely give him more for his next campaign, and he went with her as he always does when she has anything to say, which is seldom but still too often.

I had fifteen minutes to explain a days worth of work. I'll have to put the rest of into a position paper and hope without expecting that it will get read. That job had fit me at one time, but I've gotten too big for my britches too.

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