The Gonzo Wolf

In a single moment, a schizophrenic to my right was beating a wall and screaming about pedophiles, a homeless man to my left was screaming at an invisible woman (violently calling her a bitch), and a squirrel was dangling from my bird feeder (nuts screaming in full view).

Too much screaming around Pepaw’s Porch Swing.

That was a single moment.

Imagine a day.

The choppers circle.

Is it my turn?

Friday.

What a ride.

People enjoy my prose, but I just add basic literary glue to the lunacy surrounding me.

Raised voices on the wind, or schizzy from above is auditioning sans backup band.

Protests? Raids?

Several circle now as gunfire erupts in the distance.

It’s not fiction; it’s now.

Vultures for the opposition, pecking away freedoms with weaponized eyes.

Fading, I feel a sense of normalcy, for what it’s worth, returning to the neighborhood.

Birds and energies flow to life.

Trust the television or the window?

To my front and back; ears and eyes, facts and lies.

WWIII; year five, for those in the know.

Chopper blades approach and fade as today’s monster rears its head above the hill.

Not a moment goes by when I don’t possess death-deals in each pocket.

I hate it; vile energies infect my nerves from steel to toe.

Uneasiness inches closer; I just watch the birds.

The box tells none; I watch the birds.

What must it be like to fly above all of this at will without machine or fortune, at least until there’s nowhere left to perch?

When strength fails, the last will stand upon stacks of those who roasted before; man’s bonfire of failure, their demise.

All below our feet is death, as we shall be to those who win.

This must’ve been what it felt like when Shrek came home and found all those assholes living in his house.