Roulette, Russian

Beat-Poetry is one of the reasons that Asher contemplates manslaughter of the first degree, as he often does.
Foreign Beat-Poetry begets certain slaughter.
As he stares at the stage from an ill-lit corner of the coffeehouse, he’s absolutely livid.
At least, on the inside.
the acidity dancing on his tongue stirs imagination.
A microphone wire,
curled until its length resembles
a smooth, strong snake
would make an excellent solution to the chopped
syllables
wretched from the uppity russo-punk’s mouth:
a quick jerk, a low snap, and an onrush of truly gorgeous silence.
But Asher remains hidden.
And the poet
remains alive.