20091206

BOYS.


It is a metaphor that I'm singing along.
It is a metaphor that you can't hear.

I'm shivering on the outside. Teeth chattering, caught in cold little shudders. And looking straight at you - straight into your face, but only for a spasm of a moment. And then, I return to my shivering - being dead honestly cold. I'm cold, real cold, sure, but the last thing I am is a beggar. Not on the outside, where my coat is, anyway. I plead too, just like you, but I use my eyes. And it's raining. Would you look at that? But more importantly, let's have a look at this ...

Because, I mean, what's that little girl trying to do? Boy is she ever short . . . Her legs are thinner now than they were a year ago, but it doesn't get rid of the short. I guess the hair helps. She's just elongated, and maybe that makes sense. Why does it feel like she's getting so much closer to me? She's not even moving. She's just standing in one place. With her hands forced deep in her little jacket, shaking. She's toying with something I can't see. Something in her pocket. Maybe it's a lighter - probably is - but imagine. It could be anything. A lucky stone, like she's a witch or something. Or some boy's telephone number. Even though she never seems interested in boys. And maybe that makes sense too. She'd never call that boy anyway. And so what if she'd never call that boy? I'm too old for this shit, and I mean, so ... what ... ?

And just look at this guy. What's his damage? I mean, what is "damage" anyway? It's the 21st century. Damage doesn't make you important anymore. Or it shouldn't. It should, however, facilitate power, and this guy's using none of that. He's shrinking. It's like he's turned on but refusing to glow - like a busted lamp. And do you know what people do with a busted lamp? If they're artistic, anyway, they make light of a dark situation - and make that lamp glow some other way. And the funny thing is - this guy knows every bit of it already. But he keeps right on excusing himself, assuming his own guilt like a fool, and dropping another quip about some girl who isn't here. Not right now, or not anymore. Just her shadow's here. I kind of wish I knew how to ask someone for their phone number. And, huh, I wonder what that could mean ...

I could, um, be another nervous wreck. Thinking to myself, "What if I'm invisible again?" Because that's always been my affliction. Covered over like a master in the dense flora of my life, hidden in the colorful undergrowth of my social condition. Or I could say to myself, "Oh, what the hell? This would have my undivided attention anyway," and step back. And scream like bloody murder, in my head, into the air. Letting the wind work it's magic. And, exactly.

Camouflage would otherwise seem useless to me, if not for the sake of this ... sort of ... thing.

I'm guessing, now, that wolves really do wear sheep's clothing. Just like the story says. So my only question now is, "Do they both see what's going on here, with the wolves and the sheep? Or is it too dark outside? And does anybody have a flashlight?"

Something in her pocket.

Maybe it's a lighter - probably is.

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