I’m on the morning ride, it’s time to feel alive, windy bike ride highway, the scenery in the countryside, Bob Ross exhibition, picturesque day, no cars down the road to the field and I see scarecrows mass appeal, total retain as my eye sees all, one thing looks way too real

I’m in the postmodern age of the man – every action I do to you in command; samsaric circle, karmic application, in syncopation

Who’s the kid twitching and moaning, amongst the corn, what a strange color, he’s not exactly a good fighter, the crows come around, high-step whistling, the details look strange, I damn well know, but maybe it’s just another decoration, it’ll all be snuffed out in the snow, red in the ground, trail on the boulevard

I bike away, postmodern ignorance, samsaric renewal, scarecrow is bliss, familiar sights and sounds not amiss, Wyoming togetherness

Biking further down the avenue that’s when the sight kicked in it’s true the being looked way too real the trail of blood should’ve revealed missing inquiries across town of the guy last seen at the Fireside could that be him there so I turned around

I’m riding down and I hear a cry, a weak cry, perhaps, but probably a lark’s, but it sounded shrill and pained and dark, desperate and then it all stopped, took another look at the sight, is his head split open and cut, WHAT’S GOING ON WHAT’S THIS GUY DOING HERE, and I tripped

My wheel was bent and I couldn’t do a thing, but I noticed I was closer to the fence, the scarecrow, I thought, was human all along, just barely making breaths

HEAD BUSTED BRAIN ON THE FENCH WHEEZE AND CHOKE TEETH ON THE GROUND
AND THEN IT HIT ME
IT WAS MATT FROM TOWN
THE BASTARDS CARVED IN FAG