Tuesday, August 28, 2012

Life-cycle of a Pragmatist


"Holy art thou butterfly".
What a load of shit, I thought to myself. Concerned
only with my missing,
black socks I had precious little
time for that finger-snap, college bullshit.

The logo on my 100 percent recycled, paper cup read
The Sentient Bean...
cute.
Knowing outdoors would better tolerate my smoking habit,
I made a hasty exit, jostling
several paint-smeared SCAD students
and knocking over the microphone stand.
The pretty girls all glared
and the boys continued desperately trying to hide their hard-ons
beneath the checkerboard tables.
"Philistines", said I
"it's the closest thing to high art they've seen all day and all they can do
is continue trying to fuck one another
without appearing to be trying to fuck one another."

A little bell tinkled and I was without. Without
was much preferable to within.
It was,
however, much hotter and much more humid without
and the lack of my socks notwithstanding,
I began sweating.
It poured from me torrentially.
From my hair and neck and chest and underarms and the crack of my ass.
Choked by the heat,
I felt myself dripping down to the uneven concrete until I was nothing
but a puddle.
The friction of Chuck Taylored feet against the sizzling pavement
livened my molecules a bit
and though my eyebrows and a little of my lower intestine remained
to condense on the side of a tall glass of sweet tea from the cafe,
a cool breeze whisked by and blew the rest of me
out to sea.

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