Fake war

Gloves off. Saw them on the road.

Philos character puttering and muttering. Disolving by the roadside while hitting the marks.

Being the soaring tail eagle on the coin instead of the head.

So many second chances.

Strip off the story of Philos. Let the scene do it for you.

If she wants to come, she can, but she needs to wake up.

It really has nothing to do with me and I am out of it.

A first dart: engineering systems.

The second dart a flute: whistling past the cemetery.

Surveying the county in the dark.

But by God, respect the chicken. Respect Ernest Hemingway and shotgun shells.

The coin with no heads. Flip that one for a while. Sound of one hand clapping. Sound of hammer tapping. The casing end.

The eagle thinks the top of the hill is someplace special.

But down in the valley beneath the bridge next to the effluence . . . that could be the most sacred place.

The actor sits on the stage near the rabbit hole at the top of the trail where all the egos grow. Barfing out re-written lines.

Surrounded on the trail by poison ivy. I vowed not to drag the self through there.

Tell me what you believe, and I’m going to tell you not to believe in anything.

And the beetles of the trail bow at my feet.

There’s so much mud and flood.

Eyes wide shut with faith sprinkled on.