With Gusto

The Buck Stops Here

There's a mole on my tongue that looks like North Korea, so I hereby declare myself an axis of evil. Business doors are open to outside visitors of any kind, and if they have a weekend free I'll probably run into them at the bar. I've met others before, others who wander the streets with daggers in their vests and money in their shoes. Some others keep metal pipes in their long jackets. They stand just inside the alley way. And what everybody else is doing is wrong, but they're driving the good cars with dogs girls like, puppies on the way. Every business decision was a mistake, obviously, because look at the reward. The Dream. Little children steal hub caps off your wheels at night, and pry into your locks for flaws, returning once a week on patrol to see if their new tool is the one that your lock will give to. Maybe he has a bag of fresh arsenic, a bag that has gone through many pockets, poison in powder form. Technology, technology woo. Leave your bottles out for the bums at night and the junkies start looking through your backyard, taking snippets of your perfection. With them they take the heads of pink flamingos, tiki torch wicks, loose screws off of your child's play set, the sandles you left on the patio before bed.
So it's about outside business, the axis of evil, North Korea burning a mole into my tongue.