He shows a wreaking disregard for the safety of others.
He has of late, he knows not how, lost his mirth. Wild and foolhardy, he bungee-jumps from sharp objects, dallying, drives three sheets to the wind, drinks kamikaze shots while bowling for dollars he doesn't have.
To be or not to be, he is reckless like a necklace strung too tight without a clasp, a wasp with no asp
She ditches the car on a back road in an attempt to flee her past. She puts her hand over her mouth, the robin egg crushes underfoot. She can taste danger seeping through her pores, down her back, into the willow roots.
Incapable of her own distress, she will fling herself, unrestrained, to the swamp, rue, from the brook. She springs free from encroachment, skimming like an amoeba across quicksand
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This piece originally appeared in Heavy Feather Review, and is one of 30 pieces in my second chapbook: Diptychs + Triptychs + Lipsticks + Dipshits, from Deadly Chaps Press, Joseph Quintela publisher: