Smash glass here


So there you are, standing in the jewelry store, wondering when it all went wrong.

Just smash the glass and run, keeps repeating in your head. The alarms have been hacked, the owner and assistant lie tied up like pigs in the back room. And a car is waiting for you just outside.

Just smash the glass and run.

But then, where is your man? The one supposed to be standing next to you? The one who did the hacking, tying and fine tuning of this whole goddam project? Where is your Beatrice you followed naively into the real world, finding nothing but false images, misrepresentations and facades that smell like honey, but sting like Venus fly traps? This crazy town of butterfly ladies and sugar daddies, in a hand basket headed to god knows where.

Yet, he must be there. You know him, through and through; you’ve known him intimately, distantly, savagely. You’ve known him for your whole life, before and beyond your existence. You know, as you yourself explained, because he is the one reflected in the fish tank at the party that none of your friends went to. 

 He is the one that crushes parched dead flowers in his oversized palms. He is the one who drags the mab where she will not go. This is he!

You know him: an aging soul in a gypsy shell, with the remnants of some distant formal training. But now you will find scant rhyming couplets and a decomposed structure that tried once only to write sonnets. But winter early invades my hairs and the bones that struck the page groan with premature senescence.  

But stop thinking about all of this; who the hell cares?

Just smash the glass and run.

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