the sun stares into my dilating pupils, asks
“here, have you met these trustworthy folks?”
laughing, i ask
“who? these impressionist wild violets reaching their desperate, firm handshakes magically from the center of
this otherwise asphalt lake?
this infectious iridescent dilution across
this petroleum seep,
this whole of my sight you’re presenting
we pretend wryly, to count airborne soot above the quick;
as if the census bureau could find a single flea feasting on fine tanned canis lycaon leathers, and bother.
i accidentally left my survivalist crutches behind because of their weight, make no mistake (those long preparations for my
daily illusions from the safe vanishing point of that hot golden wink),
crippling my vision,
and reassuring that no one is there to shake my hand or carry me,
but to consume every spec of floating trust
with the black hole gnash in La Brea’s
sucking, breathless palms.
we pretend wryly,
oil isn’t carcinogenic,
fleas aren’t parasites,
and the sun can see, hear, and speak.
i pretend to own polarized lenses
i ruin my sensors.
i pretend you mean well.