A murmur of protest

We can all see the jet liners as they pompously soar above. As their stream of self righteous consciousness pierce the lard blob clouds, we see them. We see them all and we crouch and huddle in their shade.

There’s a miniscule possibility they see us, or rather knows of us. Knows of us the way a tractor-soled boot knows about the bugs it will squash as it hits the ground. It knows of the sound emitting as we break.

And we see more, more than our veiled, off guard eyes can take, more than the shallow, thick-water, concrete shores of the waterfront reveal or is ready to discuss over a murky glass of wine. And even though it’s a cheap, white trash wine it would be too brash to say it’s tasteless.

What more do we see? Or well, when I say We, I’m actually taking too much credit. I don’t see that much. Actually I see fuck all. It’s them (the rest of We) doing the looking and viewing and seeing, and subsequently dying. For the blind are not in jeopardy, so sayeth the Lord. But I do neither his bidding nor theirs. I hide, here, by my desk, sometimes under it. I hide, with my rifle at hand.