Boomerang

What fools do sing of Karma? Justice meted out like some kind of sick equation as though any thoughts or theorems are constant. I'm sure Pythagoras and Euclid would be very proud of all of us. See this place and time: Sigma batwings beat like boomerangs, doors slamming out the dust-choked sunlight, trapping sinners in the saint saloon. An argument! There at the corner table where pink flesh meets inlaid wood and the oily leather squeaks and cracks around the ultimate geometry machine the steel bed for brass and lead and rifling. This is bar-graph justice, an erxcercise in mean and percentage, or was it median? Bam!Bam! Like a prophet fired from the kiln those bullets eat the air between the foresight and the torso. This is aborigional justice come 'round full circle on a decent man.