(as appeared in Tucumcari Literary Review)

                       Spin


Every sluggish tick of each languid hour
proclaims its dread; ordeal is strangely paced--
a bitter lozenge, cold and deadly sour.
Though underneath my tongue I taste
this Charon shekel, it's a drop displaced
from Hell, and not the full flavor of death.
Though unholy filth clings about my waist,
and soulless whores loose screed on liar's breath,
such lies, as voiced illusions, always fade.
The truer tongue is stilled, and holds that coin
of passage, and bides its peace unafraid,
defying wretched ranks such villains join
who choose to strain their excremental wits
by forcing "truth" where "propaganda" fits.