ligeia

Speak XVIII

hobo beatnicks huddled over donuts to discuss the
government, life, love, god, and how to capture the
soliloquy of a trash can turned over beside a rusted
gutter.

Line walked over. Herblack turtleneck thought to be a
cliche pose. she was young. they took the opportunity to
prove that bluntness was a rebelion against society,
especially to somone her age.

"did you bring some poetry or did you want to show off your
tits?" expectation for response both.

"i don't believe in poetry."

"We've got a fucking new age." said the The (this is not a
mistake) Man to himself, back turned, beard not quite
touching his mug. grimy hands. worn away to the seams.
plastered eyes. he wasn't old. middle aged chest.

"you want us to ask you what you believe in?" said the
woman with the oily pussy.

"no." that was the only way to get them to ask.

"well?"

"truth." poetry is the same as music is the same as art if
it is all true.

they laughed and let her have a seat. "It's a good thing
you are too young to be a cynic." the scrawny one said,
his glasses sinking down his nose after his attempts to
push them back up.

"realist." she said and grabbed an abandoned donut.

it should have been cold there. their faces should have
been drawn to a self righteous cynisism. but there she
was. and their hands warmed.

they let her alone, while she sat at the bar, watching the
occasional napkin turn into a red balloon in her mind. so
silent, quietly reaching for the sky on a blue day. it was
horrific. a sadness creeping over her skin and into her
eyes, drowning out her sinuses and filling them with saliva.

she smiled and drew it with her pen. the drawing was
curved and looped and slashed. it went in columns and
ended and started with the breath of granite. there was no
frame for it. an interpretation yielded from the same
symbols that spelled the happiness and the cruelty of the
world. a twisted combination of such placed and marked by
her own, willing to be the opposite aggreement of
everything. the irony. life was.