The Beauty of the Rare Thing

Season of rain from melted ice caps calls for treatment of pain with frequent night caps – which calls for more time to fill up notebooks which means I’m shy and should’ve spoke but I would rather die alone 12 miles from the nearest home than stand here getting further soaked and scraping glass for black to smoke. I’m barely just a little buzzed, but outside, the wet static fuzz hums like a cassette tape; ditches flood then run away through dents and shallows never noticed when the water’s at its lowest. Cigarette smoke moves much slower, pausing thickly before blowing to the midwest or wherever men in test tubes wait to measure semi-deadly cancer levels. To worms, God must seem the Devil – drowning them and flooding towns – using oil rigs to dowse for money while the near-dead drowse, reclined on a slip-covered couch, with percocets and ambien.

There’s no sense being different if you’re going to act the same. The beauty of the rare thing is the thing that it became.

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~ by perfectionatrix on September 28, 2011.

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