Abbas Appeal

A million colored balls roll down the steps from the parliament, barely sewn to the ground which affords the time of day luxurious template to go over during the Bolero, a repast of metrophiles freed from having

 sent away decent judgment. Not only prepared but fixated on lab results that show us ourselves together in the rain kissing while our dresses soak on the steps of the national library, not a card in the world not even for the Kenyans mangled in a news report. After the tide comes in over the pebbles and small rocks, the radio goes on over the counter and we sit for a while with our bread and coffee facing behind the smudgeless windows the street which has closed down and permits no passersby to persuade us that it's without question overcast or sunny, dizzyingly felt-up after we pay for it all, every word. Don't glamorize the banditos leaving pamphlets, who reads pamphlets? Don't effortlessly decide to drive back from the airport with a gun to your head through the well-lit voluptuous folds of the suburbs, not in the final revision, away from the family and the granular financial awareness. Don't be pert. Don't be hovering over the troops in a tuxedo veering off into the shadows laid down as in a perilous Western scene surrounded by hungry cast and crew. Policy decides what we are about, and that is what we put outside the jacket. Breakable, unfavorable devices that kill one's personality in the swiftness of a furnace starting over. My time with you is just that short, which is why we marry ourselves off to the solace building houses, beneath nothing that we'll see so long as money pours over us in rills. 

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