R. G. Johnson

R .   G .   J o h n s o n

next

As For The Fear

Who spilled this syrupy music into my head? In a shattered zip code, stray dogs howl old bluish aches through a new pinkish fog. I sip liquid shadows from a white Styrofoam cup and growl whispery bile to God. He never answers. A terrorist was killed by a drone today, but I don’t feel any less frightened. Blackbirds congregate on downtown power lines, and discuss how to escape the prophesied annihilation. Wish I had wings and/or options.