They had strong voices and curtained powers. I didn't try to help them. They didn't need my help. I needed their strong voices. I could tell they didn't want it. Driver heads, pushing their ways as abundant and pretty and good. I never believed them. It passed by me for the better. Intellectual cutoffs, jeans worn too much. Each time it lost some of its color. Slowly they died. Monuments, a shoe, in their honor. Take home some plaques to show off, well doings, a grafter to mesh skin with, displaced without dust. It did not dare to gather dust.
Eminent plays, dust jacket flew in the arena. Grounded full of faces who paid to receive the sights soon to be before them. A power play. They read a sailors log while waiting for it to begin, like troupers they waited and ready dirty books.
It never did begin.
The power players were scared to come out. Obviously they hadn't the power they claimed to have. The news shook everyone up.
Including me. I was never the same since then, reviving a worn out feeling inside of me. I pound champaign over my head, the bubbles slide down and feel nice. I licked around my mouth. It tasted good.
I sat in the bathroom applying rouge until my cheeks were rosy. Putting more on; I looked like a whore. It is not hard for me to achieve that look. I have to laugh. No one has told me, though. I looked ridiculous. A featherweight bunion.
RIVER BED 113
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