The Embargo

Whiskey-smacked birdmen take to the sky once again, avenging all so-called transgressions via radio-wave breakdown, and always with a nod and bow to the ancients. The pain comes in fast and hard, with little relevance to the affair at hand, let alone rational intent.

A self-inflicted blow to the face, with the force of months of disoriented walks through heaps of Dionysian rubble. The loss of taste is the worst of it, but at least sight remains, allowing for glorious sunspots, and the awareness of those precious, awkward smiles.

© 2009 Lee Greenfeld