Barn

Like balls of dough, the pitch-black crawlers. The blue beluga bodies, the fat ones. Tormentors of the dreamers in space, ideals of a world in transition. The resilient powers of the air, the cardinal ones. The schizophrenic analyzers hanging around stark concrete buildings and iron lattices, the construction zones. The prefab, big-box barn had quite a flop in the center of the bridge where everyone could see it. Planks were teetering over and plummeting down into the water. I wasn't supposed to be in there so late at night, my body was shaking as if someone had struck it with a mallet. The boards of wood were rotting and in disrepair. Images of Barbie dolls lined the walls, now cracked and peeling. I made out the special editions, the international ones, the centennial and millennium editions, the holiday event specials. A solitary LED candle made visible the imitation gold melting across the borders. Afraid a pedestrian could see me from the outside, trying to hide between boards but noticing lines of sight from every angle. Still trying to do what I came here to do, the sacrifices to be made. Poseidon's trident, the aqueous nods. Our underwater gods, insinuating to the organizations, anointed by the people themselves. I hope to choke the idols with my own two hands. Nobody outside but I'm constantly watching, imagining that there is someone there, squinting at the city buildings in the distance. Shaking at what they would think. Rolling in the dust of the ground and the stink of the rotting boards and imagining what they would think.