2002-10-09 - 3:59 p.m.
I happened right about the time when craft stopped mattering.
She walked inside in her jogging suit and sneakers, ready to absorb it all,
waiting,
waiting for beauty,
for things she liked to look at,
for things that weren’t her (or the products that make her up as the White Rain posse had recently usurped power of her body),
she wanted people to see her looking at beauty and class,
to tell people about the sophistication she absorbed through the acrylic suit,
not only had she stopped mattering,
but she had stopped caring about mattering,
sure, her hair was puffy,
but that hardly justified an existence
she wanted to view the grandeur of humankind
an entity she desperately tried to convince herself that she understood
there she was, sneakers planted securely on blonde hardwood floor
she opened her eyes, and saw tin, rips, plastic
messy messy dirty dirty
she saw her supermarket, her car, her hospital
“where have they put the pretties?,” she said quietly to the white,
“no, no, no,
“they’re going to fast,” she said more frantically, with a tiny tear in her eye
her pudge slammed against the smooth, unforgiving walls
pinballing around the room
she collapsed to the right of the bench
cried an extra slippery puddle
then, motionless
when the liquid stopped,
she picked herself up,
shoved the bench over to the wall,
stood on the bench,
pulled a hammer and two nails out of the side pocket of her purse,
pierced her right shoulder with the slamming metal
no scream, just a trickle of blood down her right foot and dripping on the floor
pierced her left shoulder with the slamming metal
no scream, just a trickle of blood down her left foot and dripping on the floor
kicked the bench back to to its centered position
the guard set up a red velvet stantion around her,
permanent collection.
