Follow by Email

Tuesday, June 7, 2016

Playground Triptych, on a garden wall

     He takes stock of all the things that are falling apart and draws parallels to himself. He is a bastion of decrepitude, decay, and entropy. He slouches like the beast towards, he assumes because he doesn't really know if he has a direction, Bethlehem. He also likes to wallow in self-indulgent narcissism. He gets so tired of thinking about himself, all he needs and all he wants. How over-diagnosed are we? He also specializes in hyperbolic, pretentious generalizations.

     A low flying jet rumbles over the playground, looking like low-hanging fruit, waiting for some giant's hungry hand to pull it from the sky, peel back the hardened rind, and eat the soft, juicy, screaming insides. Forty-five seconds later there will be another, then another, then another...

     She smashed her bicycle into a pole, but the only thing broken was the front reflector. Her pride and pelvis were bruised-the consequences of trying to impress some boys-and her shiny new confidence, rock-solid until now, felt scratched and shaken loose.

No comments:

Post a Comment