the editor kept calling
- kept demanding for what was prepaid
and it was 11 days late -
"that pompous pre-madonna piece of literary shit,"
the balding editor disclaimed while slamming
the door to the office bar - bottles shook.
and the editor continued to char his brain like
a lit cigar.
a well liked rock star, on top of his game,
enjoyed the mellow days of sun spotted dreams
and playing guitars.
the article sat before him -
yet he wasn't getting too far -
the cursor hadn't moved for hours -
22 shots also sat before him
and he didn't know if he should drink
or pull the god-damn fucking trigger
his organic cotton t-shirt read,
"we belong to the earth -
earth does not belong to us."
-chief seattle-

-John A. Conte` JR-