By Lemuel Crouse
You ponder entertainment news;
I study casualty lists…dead statistics.
You speculate about sports;
I rack ammo into clips for weapons
Stripped, cleaned, oiled…
Maybe now I can sleep tonight.
You are restive…some minutia
Floating on the edge of consciousness
While I ponder the relative ballistics
Of a thrown phone that seems filled
With foolish drivel, trivia from a world
Where squirrels steal untold snacks
From sparrows, and the stones and arrows
Never reach you in your cocoon.
But soon they will, and every hull
And shell will count…and all of them
Are chronicled in my warped brain…
The pain of my past demands it.
Shit…I would rather forget and drift
On the sea where Buckeyes and Ducks
Matter more than scattered seed,
And weed is a joke to be toked,
Not the strangling vine intertwined
With my spine, pulling me down
Into the void…Pink Floyd said it all.