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	enjoy this writing from Mike Brennan in the cc&d free 2014 PDF file chapbook: Postcards from Exile    (click on the front cover image or the title text to download the free PDF file, available with two different covers)				You can also order this release as a 2014 6" x 9" perfect-bound paperback ISBN# book! Click on the cover spread for the book Postcards from Exile

Order this writing in the book the Beaten Path (a Down in the Dirt Jan. - June 2014 collection book)		get the 372 page Jan. - June 2014 Down in the Dirt magazine issue collection 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

Millennial Mania

Mike Brennan

The first years
burned like arsons’ fire in our guts
the nerves pure shotgun fodder
folding over & over into a terrible origami
each night dissolving into an absolute vodka anxiety
as the boredom flips through the fingers like a faded quarter
could a nameless medicine quell the fear outside the window pain?

The television flickers over Hitler as I
decode what other decades subconsciously decided
over my last thousand packet of cigarettes
over all the roads less traveled than paved
the future lying on a fault-line
shivering through a stagnant earthy spine
is anything truly yours or mine or
fornicating & floating along on borrowed time?

Ah! Apocalypse-Just A Sequel-Neither a Bang, Whimper, or Squeal
blackened skies of a belligerent belly-ache escalating the
burning sunlight from the inside out
& murdering my summer dreams with spirited spite
hope disappearing into the distance as a death masked kite
shall I just forge an epitaph for eternity sufficing our oedipal sight?

& as I long to firebomb my TV and dose talking-heads with LSD
the horrors remain an entity of an enemy
flanking the flower-bed trampled within me
twin towering giants conjoined into repeating
all the wrong numbers while
punching my psychic phone
until I expire like a milk carton
finally alone?
So let someone else soliloquy my skull
with ADHD, OCD, & PTSD
bullets over Broadway
ricochet into the headache of neo-revolutionary history
the masses all screaming, Me, Me, Me,
as their fifteen minutes quickly laugh off into sullen tragedy
I pensively ponder
if there is a part in this play already penned for me?

I am no tragic or noble king nor would ever want to be
I am just the ghost wrapped around the closed curtain
similarities spoken aside- all equally uncertain
I stick out my thumb and ask
“Which road leads to ruin?”

I’ll just smile out the passenger side
& let the rest pass right through me
besides agony is all that you really allow it to be
so I guess a will towards nothingness
is all the certainty that is left to be cleansed & free
as we all are just starving actors
staggering across a stage
that’s design has become too strange
for any audience to accept nevertheless believe.

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