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The Gene Casino

By Meg Frances From Issue No. 6

Existence is a happy accident happenin’ on the side of a hot rockyroadkill highway in Houston in the

summer of ‘86. The facts of my life as reported to me by my closest kin. A mythic fusion of whim.

That such common acts of lust or gushing love or that special kind of Texan boredom produce entire

bodies of need every day is terrifying. I speak a godless prayer each time I bleed. Monthly awe.

Somewhere hidden down inside me is a bomb. Slippery beginnings of choice. Unformed things of

insatiable want. Potential without skin. A list of photogenic developmental stages begging their expected

check marks. Fat flesh sacks with jagged wolves’ teeth. A novel construction of the past.

Human hurt all wrapped up, compressed in the unexpressed milieu of something new. Cloned bits of me

mingling with a crapshoot. More chances to fail up and out. Don’t squat on your spurs.

Reckless if you do it just because.

Selfish to avoid pushing out legacy.

Giving birth to the end of time.

The casino of risky genes is still open. I don’t enjoy gambling. What I can do is mouth each free cocktail

and pull levers till my pile of pennies depletes. Look around and assess other’s losses.

What I like most is being able to leave.

About Meg Frances More From Issue No. 6