A.G.E's Joint

Atlanta Highway seemed surreal. Asphalt and concrete stretched for miles in all directions and dimensions.   Sensations of elevation and descent alternated as light posts and warehouses floated across his vision.   The Toyota wasn’t a car, but a mutant space plane rapidly traversing this so called reality. The Pigs created this illusion of “Reality”. Jeremy smiled at the thought.   It didn’t matter how many substances the Pigs put into him, he rejected this concept and had since the fire. All he saw was the illusion aw it was projected from the central location. Even this train of thought was a delusion. He knew that. It was never mentioned in polite, or any other, company. The small, white room was too close of a memory for him to relive.  A gnawing sensation began to rise up from his gut. Hunger? Time won’t let me eat. There are things to do and plans to make. When did he eat last? At 3 sheets, whenever that was. He remembered absent mindedly gnawing...

Sitting Three months after the fall. Wondering if my Departure meant anything at all. Tapestry unravelling Around my feet Where I sit Expectations to beat. Plans that I made Have ground to a halt. And the novel Sits quietly in the vault. A harvest of thanks Is what I should feel. But it feels more Like a spur in my heel. Yet the thanks do flow Out from my mouth For it could be Worse here in the South No more gobbbledygook I have to fear Or politicians I have to hear.