Alan Britt

No Way Out

One-way ticket? Where to? Where on this planet populated by aspirations for a winter palm frond cocoon in Boca, 400 summer acres in upstate New York, or season tickets to cheer millionaires bruising first downs with billionaires coiled into air-cooled boxes high-fiving fellow plantation owning thugs while raising champagne flutes to their indentured felons?

One could tally a litany of banalities, enumerate in the manner of Whitman, because he wanted to despite the brutality that surrounded him while continuing to breathe the goodness of humans. Well, Walt, pervert of your age, so christened by the wizened critics of your day, Walt, I must see you this afternoon, just once before you’re vilified by the Ralph Waldos of my generation.

Well, there’s no way out because there is no ticket, just a worn spot among April clover with the oppressive sun whipping my back, my unwelcome flagellation on broken knees face to face, eye to scarab eye socket with a three-inch garden grasshopper, serrated hind legs springloaded & body like a splinter of driftwood as this angelic creature, holding no season tickets to anything, remains frozen in hypnotic fear that I might gobble him; how ironic that he infuses me instead. Alas, he is my ticket out.

Alan Britt © 2019