Passionista

She had lost her way. He had found his heartache. Her fashion sense was on the loose. His losing cost him his integrity. My lunch is on the floor. Count the bits of careless caution and careful lies in the pool of deception. We spoke out, until our chords bled and our mobiles screamed out for a new kind of breakfast cereal. One that does not give you cancer or a hole in the head. She is his moose. He is her rad commie wishing for a day when the good-ol-boys start hoisting their own. Or at least hold themselves accountable for the worst of what can't be denied. Just meet us half way to 7-11, and you will see the street walker can talk her way into anything, even a six-figure suit, and a five figure suite, and a four figure boot to walk all over anyone who points out what she said, a 3 figure fill in the blank check, a two finger sign, and a single figure of speech.

Time comes to wait by my front steps because its cool in the shade and you can see the others going by. Space comes to fill in my piggy bank with candy for the global winter coming to a continent near you. Matter of fact, the glass is shattering together from the beach and the stones are rolling up hill, and it all part of the project. It's in the specs. Don't count on any PowerPoint, for the big guys upstairs are filling filing cabinets with galleys, and filling the shelves with secret entrances. Read This! You passionista, slanderian, opticalinator associate. You will pay for your afternoon drives to the gigs of bad mortgages.