Prose Poem by Adam Crawford
Two hours and three bands away from a headliner my friend wanted to see, Flanked by bare prison-tat biceps and their delicate, air-headed drag-n'-plows, The moron hivemind heaves like rolling heat, swaying, stumbling, tipping against me. The high August San Pedro sun has another hour. I'm done being passive. My heels and teeth grind -- dig. I press deep against the thickened flow, all six feet and both barrels of me. Some of them look up: big, ugly heads full of caveman instinct. I've evidently disrupted their trance. I respond with chattering fangs and loud, tiny words: their default language. Somehow, no one goes for me. I drift towards the pit, where suicidal tendencies have elbow room and violent converted air circulates.
Adam Crawford is a writer of poetry and short stories. His work has been published by Ink Babies Lit Mag, Silent Spark Press, and The Pomegranate London. He lives in Simi Valley, California.
