Sometimes I wonder just how long
this stupid mean season will last.
This story arc has been dragging its butt for years
threatening to swallow the decade.
Seriously: what’s the point?
I can only imagine how the gods
come to write this stuff:
bleary eyed, no sleep for eons,
drunk on ambrosia,
straining to come up with yet another bullshit plot line
golden enough to redeem all the bullshit that came before:
“Let’s say that this time the people who run are the mean ones
and the good guys will be the ones to stay.”
That’s how stupid this is
That’s how desperate they are:
grasping at straws for a dream that’s not fatal,
praying the universe won’t jump the shark.
Franetta McMillian has been writing ever since her mother taght her how to hold a pencil. Her poems, essays, short stories, and artwork have appeared on Dreamstreets Quartet, The Broadkill Review, and other online and print publications. Her books include Love in the Time of Unraveling, The Hololounge of the Mundane, and Under an Alien Moon. She also publishes the zine Fat Black Girl in a Wheelchair. She lives between Avondale, PA Newark, DE and the machines of loving grace future in her head.