by T. Lynn Wright

Created on: August 03, 2009

3000 Miles of Insulation

Your words scatter in the dialogue box.....your spelling the sad product of the whiskey in the mason jar that pickles you each evening. Despite their unruly, incorrect form, their cruelty spans the miles; dark, cold assassins across the Atlantic,cynical, bloodless pixels sent from the Great Lakes down to the Gulf. By the time they reach the evergreens, they have lost their power, now simply black characters on a screen, as empty as the rhetoric you tried to convey when your clumsy, drunken fingers struggled to form them.

Words are your weapon, your false pride, as you down a few before loading your pretty children into the requisite SUV and drive through a cookie-cutter enclave, insulated by the loaded gun under the seat. Your political commentary is buoyed by your mason jar and your facade known to your online friends. There are real people, those who can see, even from 3000 miles, beneath your office attire to the insecurity beneath the white sheet you should be wearing.

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