Flashbulb of a Thought

Genre: Prose Poem

'old bones croswell is an alterego of mine. he fits surprisingly well into nearly all social settings and is unpredictable in his making of appearances. sometimes he stumbles into conversations being had on rooftops and interjects his theories regarding the relative predictability of the cosmos whilst smoking a pipe and shifting his gaze - never making eye contact. an aging academic trying desperately to drink with a straw from the minds of his young replacements. other times he kicks at dead leaves and dog shit at the curb, cursing and deliciously drunk at 11 in the morning. no one pays him much attention at this hour, more than anything out of respect and public politeness - he's off his game and interacting with nature, something he'd openly declare as a trait of the soft. but sometimes, most times, he looks at his situation from above and wonders how the fuck this 21 year old he's always chasing around is going to get himself out of this mess or that, what will make him crack - and how he'll score on the charts of those he desperately needs. standing over beds with twisted sheets, eavesdropping on poorly constructed arguments, snickering at clumsy romance. he isn't a protector, no. he's a critic with no publication - a president without a following - launching missals and cooking the books because he knows no one is paying attention.