- When Sean the Hitman Developed a Conscious
Clear shot of conscious for the first time in his
life, Shawn left the gun lying on the ground
lacking the hatred to shoot Maize’s
little boy.
Or was it wisdom that led him away
From this existing turmoil, beleaguered
and beaten down can be so tiresome.
Shawn has shot a few; some with anger in
his heart, others for pay from some gangster
or gutless husband who wanted rich wifey out
of the way.
This time, he looked into the reflection on the lake–seeing the
silhouette of a man holding a shotgun, ready to tear a hole
into a crop of blond hair.
A nephew?
Maybe a son he never knew about?
He just could not stand the voices in his head—the justification of
soulless rendezvous with the dregs of mankind.
The man was tired of killing.
Tired of living.
Sometimes just tired of being.
Picking up his satchel, he packs up
His warm clothes and goes,
So far away from hugging mother and child.
No, he can never be part of that.
Never.
____________
Playing Out the String
Winter sun-2:00 P.M.
is death, aging,
Looking up through
arduous eyes, trying to
feed out words of
heart-felt
something….
Surely, we have slowed
down, as we suck on that
same joint…trying to fathom
the human condition in
some renaissance, reflective
way…
Obsessing on new
portals to climb through.
Attempting to relive
the moment when it
was so cool to be disillusioned.
But the shine
fell…
And the vision
fell…
Then the parade ended
in a departure of broken bones…
Sealed…
Unkempt…
Unwanted…
Just another dismal failure…
Just another fade…of ideals.
Stuck within a millisecond…
Of time…
Rusty Truck 