zmorgason

Of the many tiny beads of sweat that had formed on his forehead, two fell down, further soaking his already dampened brow.  Suspended, he floated upside-down in a padded room, dreaming without consciousness of his body or its position in space. His mind reeled from slide to slide—images of adolescence pooling together and then streaming into an old time film: The Life and Times of Donald A. Silver.  The yellowed silent movie showed a young man smiling and leaning against an old Chevrolet sedan.  Cigarettes burnt the corner, and he was dancing with the woman he'd asked to marry him.  But in the center of the shot, a blur grew from the in

What do you celebrate When the CLOCK has stopped ticking? When the young will not age, And the old do not die? What is the American dream, If none of us can sleep? And you stranglehold the truth, So that fear consumes the mind. What will become of us? If they strip away our souls, And re-renovate with dollar bills, Will we burn in hell? And will we even care?

I will not promise to maintain sanity.

Golden lights shine down upon us: let them in.

I'll reconstruct my father wrong, Because no one here wants to be reminded Of him, of me, and of the truth. So I'll raise my glass, Tell my lies, And slip into a stupor and a red wine headache. I won't tell you about the drunken disasters, The lonely birthdays, Or how my mother cried at night. I'll work up a tear And give a toast, "To the greatest man who ever lived." Even if he's not the man I'm really talking about.