The Daily Fix

The pirate’s dilemma, far from practical piraticism, is neo-classically destructive in its fluttering chaos, so you can see them on street corners; portly shadows sinking into blotted torque-ridden rubber splotches that can never be fully seen; dead is their fandango. Salami stains on your lapel.  Reaching for the mason jar on the corner of the high shelf, the high shelf no one’s ever reached without a stool.  It splinters and clatters and jitterbugs all about the varnished wooden floorboards, and a bald, knobby head makes a wet thumping melon sound as it burps up a jaundiced little brain and some pinkish ditchwater that drags itself across the unswept pine. More gold for the rest of us, but I’ve broken my fucking club.