WHERE THE BIG ONE FELL
By Jerzy Fitzgerald

             Some might hear sounds and think of tumble weeds, while others, desiccated hearts and old dried heads, the empty carcasses where worms gather, and wind blows through open mouths, and whistle through dew-moist nose holes and empty eye-sockets.

Such is the wind.

The imagination.

The dead.

Out there in the wasteland where the big one fell.

Some might wish for the old days, but the old days are gone.

Some might wish for better days, but there are none ahead.

Some might hope things change, and they will, but not for the better.

The mind wants different and life eternal.

However, only time marches on, forever young, gloating over our bones.

So hold your nose and drive real fast.

You’ll pass them by.

But others wait.

On down the line, all the bones just your size.
             
Jerzy Fitzgerald

Hug up the hunter.
He’s killed something sweet to eat.
Cook it up.
Eat it up.
Throw out the bassinet.
It’s no longer needed.
Jerzy Fitzgerald