The Pitfalls of Democracy

I was trying to explain to him. Skin is just perspective. How many drinks have you had? I asked. He answered, but I wasn't listening. It sounded too much like rehearsal. And underwear hitting the floor after selling too much to too many people. How many drinks have you had? I repeated the question.

He didn't answer. Not out loud.

It's an ugly tradition. This contest of sickness. Like we're trying to hate ourselves. Or are too stoned to pull out the syringe. They won't, but we'll still wait. For the hole they should reveal.

The arrows in the air like a breath held in place until we can open our eyes again and see who we've been trying to consume.

I was saying it would be easier if we were hopeless. Like everyone does when they aren't. Making my point to trolls guarding bridges no one ever crosses.

Confident in the politics of love until the votes started to come in.

I'm not averse to losing again.