by Brett Stout

The metallic neon blood
laden American
concrete and
grass,

Ohio is now singed,

safety pinned
accessories and mementos
of future
present
and past enthusiastic wars,

black tie dinners
and
cheap gas masks
melt protests of
peace
or annihilation
born solo
on gargantuan
waves of a spring unrest and
severely
defaulted apathy,

a coagulation
of
euphoric and
embittered state lotteries
and national drafts,

hands to face
and
face to face
a reduction of
tear gas laden emotions
and
centrally stationed nervous
system derailment,

war paint as surrealism art
dried and died
on Cambodian branches
20 years strong
but failed and crumbled
like forgotten
childhoods
and ancient sandcastles
the stained lying
slaughterhouse floors
of a numeric
1970
postmodern death year,

disperse,
move along,
nothing to see here
folks,

above your heads
the cerebral processing of
information and
chaos cornucopia
keep breathing though
the number 67
archaic gun shots permeate
in 13 second
daylight nightmares
and freshly lost and forgotten
skin cells
naturally coalescing
below now decaying flowers
weeds
and feet,

stop
drop and
roll to put out
the revolutionary fire,

run now
from the uncivilized
bayonets of bureaucratic
oppression
run for your life
but no Olympic medals
will be awarded in this race
gold
silver or
bronze
stars and dried lips
kiss the 4 departing souls
and the
9 remaining,

shoe strings and paper clips
wrapped tightly around bulging
femoral arteries and
depressed subclavian veins,

while a dirty vintage blackboard
has erased
random last names
Krause, Miller, Scheuer,
and Schroeder,

fill the empty glasses with
teenage confessionals and
replica superficial models
of Sun Tzu
battle plans,

the egomaniacal artistic curator
of a future grieving
Nixonian apocalypse now,

hope is occasionally resurrected
with CPR and
defibrillation
from the edge of the abyss
it whispers loudly
to the masses
most in despair,

things changed,

but,

will they remain,

the metallic neon blood
laden American
concrete and

grass,

Ohio had been singed,

remember it,

future
present
and past.
&
&

Brett Stout

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Brett Stout is a 40-year-old writer and artist originally from Atlanta, GA. He is a high school dropout and former construction worker turned college graduate and paramedic. He writes now while mainly hung-over on white lined paper in a small cramped apartment in Myrtle Beach, SC. He has published several novels of prose and poetry including Lab Rat Manifesto, and has been featured in a vast range of various media including Brown University and the University of California.

Artist: Guy Catling