Cronic: Wasteland

I see the light in his eyes, the buzzing, carnivorous light. I see the years of emptiness and his unfaithfulness to hope. There is no hope in those eyes, not really. Not even desperation. Just a blindness and a fury and an exasperation that he can’t understand what it is he is feeling. It’s cold but it’s also rote; rehearsed to the degree that it has become real. He can’t separate himself from feeling… or not feeling. Some people may call it sociopathic, but I call it a vast wasteland of emptiness. And there isn’t anything more frightening than peering into the eyes of someone who doesn’t even know who or what he is. And


is a

twisted loop

of wire

wrapped around my


Some may have calculated the circumference of the earth, but to see a stainless steel cable surround your foot, anchored to the armrest of a ’61 candy red Thunderbird is to give one an overwhelming perspective about the size of the real world.

You bein’ a very bad kitty.”

Published by

Steven Baird

Writer, poet

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