Internal Automatic Monologue (I.)

I am solo, floating on the backs of the darkest mud flats, the delta bemusing �" silt and all it implies.

 

Seemingly eclectic, there was bluish gray electricity hidden below this yellowed hat.  Seemingly parenthetic, there is impish spray of a million unrealized lives hidden within this tissue.  Don’t worry, there will be ostentatious prayer on Sunday.  Don’t worry - façade �" façade �" façade.  And yet, in the face of it all, there are still prayer candles, and there are still the prayees lighting the candles.  And there are still the collection jars to pay for the candles that flicker the prayers against the cold brick walls.  Quadruplets �" each a different color, each a different season, each a different genuflection.  I am warm beneath this hat; though parts of the cotton remain attached to some bloody, knotted ancestry, we, the callous observer, cannot see the invisible tether.  We, the unhinged in-her-image, will not ever see that inconsequential determinant.  C’est la vie and other contrived accords.

 

She played out her hand and now must wait, must wait for the rest of the table and hope for the best.  There is no prayer left when you’re at the top �" only hope.