gonzo

sometimes my search for peace
is like Hunter S. Thompson's search for the so called American Dream
a vulture's eye to mark the death of something only skeptically believed in

and in the spinning heat of some blind-eyed vision
Gonzo's crazed barrage of type-writer clicks becomes the score to my frantic animation
the stumbling of my feet
the grasping of my fists
no less fitted an art than Sergei Prokofiev's illumination of Peter and the Wolf

hardly making sense and far from vapid

but peace has no lasting home in a turbid dust cloud
and it makes only brief company with the flailing of things

this i know
because heavy it rests on my silent stillness
throbbing in a room where nothing moves
until the invisible parts of my mind spin like water down the drain
or the spinning spokes of a Hell's Angels wheel

it strikes me odd how wildly active
a motionless room can be
and how sought-less findings
humble the cynic in me

and i find myself chasing vultures away