The Headliner

Prose Poem by Adam Crawford

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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.