You can’t question the loamy articulations that barely qualify as speech collecting at the bottom of his rocks glass like too many take-homes from The Himalayas. You can’t ask them what’s wrong with preferring the color they ignore — “that’s for underlings” — it’s not acceptable to perforate the illusion. You can’t tell them you’ve discerned the difference between your thumb and index finger because they are both useless, just like the potential piggy bank inside your boyfriend’s Dockers (the crotch is too long, but you wear them anyway to make yourself less comfortable); and that fake-alligator wallet houses the bills. You don’t really care if anyone robs you or not because money is dead just like the trees felled to acquire it.
You would never tell them you don’t fake it. They wouldn’t know the difference anyway. No allowance: your eyes, muddled bitters at the bottom of a bourbon well, don’t shine like nickel sacks of titanium-plated carbon-frozen Spanish moss under the strobe light of an airship that canonizes lightning with electrical ground pull while negatively-charged water plays the ionizing side-eye.
You could tell them how romance doesn’t take hold in 14 characters or less — the number of times the community cut you down from your broken tire swing — but you keep smiling under the scion of mourning, a solitary spudnik seeking subliminal solace. The grief will not rest until you go to ground.
The doves are charcoal, and your will is paper left too long in the downpour.
“Schizoaffective” © Jane Bled
The rain gets in anyhow.