Waiting with anticipation
weeks like nuclear ash blowing in the wind
the promise of reward at the end,
a pot of gold, a receipt for sweat and blood.
Disappointment or exultation balanced on a scale floating in a void,
ready to be tipped by fools
jesters with the common sense of a lemming,
pounding toward the edge of a cliff
in the name of starpower and profit,
jingling their bells and proclaiming future success.
“Theatrical,” they say.
“Your name on the map,” they say.
“Van Damme, Statham, Austin, Rourke,” they whisper,
the names dropping, dripped from the mouths of the haves.
And I wait,Read More
patient as an Easter Island statue
waiting to be worshipped.
And I wait,
as impatient as a hummingbird,
wings buoyed by unattained potential,
constant rejection, and carpal tunnel syn...