1,314 Readings | 4 Ratings

Worthscipe

I am whaling away at myself under the welcome desk and stealing jewelry from the plastic case. Fondling it like live dimes. Plunging the clicker as the geriatrics swallow the doorway. The museum lit up like a bank. The black Louise Nevelson doesn’t see me as it crows down from the walls. A monster has taken to lamentation, to kicking me in the darkness. Umbrellas lined up while it pours. The ingénue hiding in Impressionism. The ingénue among the jackets. Me and the ingénue watching for strangers. I am out-prayed by everyone and still I am pray. I pray for everything and nothing. And then my God. You touch me in the corridors. You do not touch the ingénue. You touch me and you touch me

until my fever turns to blindness.
Posted 05/28/13
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