Hummingbirds

It just didn’t make sense. Not yet at least.
Questions buzzed his skull like hummingbirds on a vengeful tear, and he had not the answers with which to sate them.
Perhaps if he drank enough, they would come. Perhaps if he sat at the bar long enough, the world would simply move on. Perhaps, he thought and laughed to himself, if frogs didn’t have wings or whatever they used to say. Fuck.

BSB

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Whose idea was this?

Who built this railroad?
How did they come to lay down track ‘tween house and river
in such fashion as would drive wedge
separating me and my family from nature’s flux of fertile luxury
from its eager and ever-so-forgiving embrace?
What hand made thee?
And what hand do we owe thanks for tearing it asunder
casting it back to the grey, amorphous ether
from whence it was conceived
by mechanical mind, maliciously cold?

old_railroad_tracks_by_leonheart1292-d52hno6

questions

what will be my epitaph
where should we retire
where will all my money go when I die off

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do I really like my job
is this car big enough
would we happier if we had one more child

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is this the career for me
could I go back to school
can this woman make me a happy man

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where will I settle down
when will I find a job
is this degree I’ve got really worth a damn

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am I being immature
is sex all that I’m looking for
how no one is understanding me

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should I stay in classrooms
will I ask her out tonight
will I get that part-time work this summer

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where shall I say life’s going
what should I be living for
is there a god who’s watching out for me

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where can I sleep tonight
what will I eat tonight
where can I wash my face and change my socks