The New Religion

“Let me show you my tits,” says the putative
spam-dwelling madam: though surely it isn’t
the prospect of relishing mammary glands
with which I would be here importuned –
but the fun of the random assault: the brash
conquest – the mad ad hoc chance – like
a blind man who tosses a rock in the street,

or a gambler who rides through the clock
playing slots – that the shock of the neat winning
outcome – a shattering window or cherries
aligned – is quite simply a product of waiting
the requisite time: expectations discharged
to an abject belief in a quantum mechanics writ
large: probability now is our god. I’ve wrangled

all day with my HP computer which bluntly
refused to do one comprehensible thing in
response to my reasoning pleading: but suddenly
it has stopped breeding inanities: choosing
quite calmly for now to behave, save for spam
with its offer of big-breasted babes. When
one bows to this eminence, one must be brave.


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