You Are Winning

Intelligent men 26 pixels tall march from North to Southwest on your 17-inch flat screen, real-room buzzes go unacknowledged as your gaze locks into this tiny logicial competition world you've volunteered your time into. Curiously, a similar process occurs inside your own sub-6' body as you click click shift click, other little micronauts duel it out for space, brainware, mindshare, arms and legs and cavities and cracks and vessels and avenues and alleys... BOMBARD your inner circuits with the things you love most, the artillery of shared splendors, mutual accomplishments and lightly-held achievement, tasting the peache-breezes as the they flutter the sails of your navies, your navies, your navies...

She was a midshipman's mistress, facing due east with her back to the beast, to the Man in Black smoldering in black, signaled in the shadows only by the fume-cherry of his shortening cigarette, breathing his last ounce of patience for the mistress to turn to get What She Had Coming, what his employer had paid him to give her, the time of her life, a road trip in vegas, vegas, vegas the town at the bottom of your crown. CHAKRA! cheer the demon hordes descending down your drain pipes into the teeming abyss of Life-Learned substance, these manure merchants grumble under the load, yet inside they are happy;

for their families floating on flotillas of junks receive a paycheck each and every fifth Monday from the man with the cherry cigar, the one with scars from the old days and their battles in the Malta Tropics, where the falcons darted from the heavens like damned daggers dancing a simple dance with that fickle, undeniable lass... GRAVITY.

You are Jackie Chan the way you work that mouse, your keyboard knuckles to the pressure like so many novices under Bruce Lee's stomp-foot, and no amount of techno beat fertilizer will regrow what you've lost to those single moments of lost patience, when you let slip that which sinks ships: the unexamined phrase, the unintended consequence-causer, the knot un-tier, the bond dissolver, the half-truth denotation riding a black horse into the ear of the Beloved, where she perceives your strain reflection and grows nauseous, violent, hurling un-lead armies through the barracks of her esophagus, sending them untrained to fight for their live on the killing fields of your relatability, when the sun is beating down and the oil is rumbling up and all the earth wants to do is melt itself so the two

can once again be together, this blob and that orb, that heat and this heat-causer, this chain of deep hot obliteration using each and every desert-dweller for the purposes of earth-sol fusion-unity, the last techno 808 beat to ever drop, the primal victmizer set to dissolve whole galaxies like continents whipped by a hyperion Death Lance, with Keats dreaming in the back of a straw-filled pickup truck about that time he schtupped the female softball team in the abandoned hospital--

Patton Oswalt would approve.

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