What is rock? Rhetorical question, but
I need to know
that we are on the same page.
Reading from the index.
See pages twenty four and forty eight
for context.
But, we just met, and you've already read me,
but I have not bothered to read you and
you have not offered.
See the index.
You are not helping. Where are we?
A friend's place.
Why is it so dark?
That's how it always is.
I thought we were going to the gas station
to get money.
I know where you live, don't worry about it.
Why don't you ask me what I want to do?
Because you are a means to a way
you don't know
and the asking would
ruin the slide.
I think I'm going to go now.
Do you know where you are?
No, but I will figure it out
by the time the sun is high again.
Well, it was nice to meet you.
Well, I wish I went home when the bar closed
because you are clearly
more happy to prey than I am to lie down
on the road side
not gripping the tapestry
with the same hands you do
as it spins in the dirty two A.M. breeze
like a white washed body bag, goes the internal thought, continuing;
I might look your volume up
on the shelves of human experience at some point,
but, for now, I hope you find your gem and
know that I am not the blue key to your RPG. At least,
not today. Keep the money,
I say,
you need it more than me,
I say.
Okay, beau, she says, pronouncing it "boo".
Nothing tugs in my heart, and I don't shrug or capitulate
as much as I sign my name emphatically
to the simple act of walking away
from another hell
to which I do not need
to offer joint citizenship to
again.
