Act as If
by Salvador Smalí
He postured with, “you know why you feel guilty.” I, in kind, skeptical, waiting for “because you are.” Giggling and snorting he egged me in with eyes bulged and varicose veins collapsing with the gone era of a shipping village.
Who am I, dilapidated too far to argue in his Rome of dusty grain silos and broken beams with abandoned tricycles on roadways engineered for Peterbuilt. Wishing my guts clean at 2am, 3am, 7am. At all hours. Pray. I pray like it’s real. I pray because he prays. Because I am Pound’s beaten beneath the hail, I pray.
Flaking and scraping and sanding my circuitry fused vacillates endlessly with never good enough, don’t argue, I’ll the dumb SOB, don’t think like this. Undesigned pride steers me into days, weeks, months of stomach rot. And leaves me to pray. To act as if I believe that man can’t. Can’t dream his way out of these quantum metamental Roman physics.