Not halfway through the week. A minute, an hour, no more, a day, a moonrising-setting, half a minute I’m sitting alone at this bar and an uncomplicated sage interjects to split my order. Across the room his face was cubed through the bubbles in my wine. He wants a friend with soapy skin and a sickness to be cured. Paint my liver and lips oily goldochre and. Not mead, honey wine. I said I’m busy trying to make things simple. I need to be alone. Two minutes don’t make me sicker just so you can heal me. Conditionally attracted because my blood floats on water. Pneumatic illness, a sentient plague, don’t be too excited by it. I can afford my own co-pay.
Silly girls purposefully casting off mirrors to push their luck, walking under ladders, giving black cats edible rats. I’m so green. Half a yard beneath the dismal ladder I’m trembling for the construction workers. Oh my god, it’s only Tuesday. I hate the new shape of the workweek. The disordered time gets heady. No clue whether it helps to be flexible or arrhythmic. I can’t stop causing confusion among my peers. Is that why he’s here?
Obfuscate. I’m not looking to be picked up or put together even though I can’t stop coughing, my system will reintegrate eventually but still you’re hustling me. A confusion trance by a simple man, yeah but he’s but good-looking in a sort of sterile, clinical way, and he smells like disposable latex. Pitching me against myself, reading me as homeopathy, an instruction manual like I should follow my own paths like inscriptions on a tourist map, not sober or drunk, not good or bad, I’m alone by design, award me with your restraint, please let me be ill.
Unshadowing a medicine man, scrawling erroneous diagnoses on his fat pad, tell him to dose me strong and make a legible diary, deliver me to you doubly, fit like a teenager, rewritten with pleasantries and a pretty smile, talkative sometimes, living equally off charms and wit, well-read, most important: knowable, winnable, in a high castle but not too darn high. Do your slick thing like the tapsters do, mix my virus into the vortex, suck it from my lungs and restore (again) my fortune as you do perennially (again) despite how and why we flirt with different qualities of luck. Little evil me, yes evil, only hanging out since I thought you were a doctor.