Ambrose, last egalitarian, a species bent on domination. He pinches skin on his elbow then bends it to form a corner, flesh tightens under his constraint inside this pose, he caresses the skin and thinks of useless rubber. He releases but the skin remains positioned as a raised flap. ‘Defiance, eh.’ He thinks. ‘What defiance proposes is a flag struck into dead bodies, construct of symbolic tradition.’ A woman perched overhead stares at Ambrose from her window. The glass is old and flecked with dry raindrops cumulated from years of neglect, the oblong formations and bleached appearance of the raindrops distort Ambrose, as he fidgets a splotch leers and censors his face, he’s a body to her for a moment, she invents a face:
Eyes of Mussolini, chin of Jay Leno, beard of Hemingway, cheekbones of Jared Leto.
He fidgets and her reverie manifests to realism. She peers at her laptop and continues reading her Wikipedia search. Within the text reveals the story of the “Breakfast Truce.”
Ambrose interlocks his fingers and forms a flesh telescope. He holds it up to his right eye and scans the surrounding area, framing the world in his cylindrical confinement. His flesh pales dandelions, pales a red pickup truck and gold Prius, pales a homeless veteran mumbling slurs to an invisible audience.
She motions her eyes from the computer screen and gawks at Ambrose’s peculiar examination of the surrounding world. She makes no conclusion and abandons her Wikipedia search for a book of Rumi’s poetry. She thinks he’s a genius. Ambrose has never heard of him.