The Day that Christ Stuffed Figs into Chekov’s Gun

the winning hand

avoids the breakdown
that has kissed emotionally debilitative takedowns
and silences the hysterics
so that the extreme stress becomes silliness
and the dissipating psychosis flips
furrowed frowns upside down

I know the truth
because I know that saying so is a lie
I don’t deceive myself
I don’t have enough time

I can defeat anything
if that thing I can withstand
is something I have truly
learned to understand
therefore putting it with my behaviors
under my sole command

as long as I carry in my toolbox
the escape from fear glue
that sticks violent absurdity
into the steel toe of comedy’s shoes

I will not lose the plot

as there never was any pot…

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