Arsenic Lobster poetry journal Issue Thirty-one
Spring 2013
Cathedrals of the Useless
CL Bledsoe

We didn’t know how to dance, didn’t know smiles were for more than showing our immaculately cared-for teeth, so we swayed awkwardly, grimacing at the walls which refused to acknowledge our manners. We didn’t know what mattered, so we catalogued minutiae, built cathedrals of the useless and called ourselves avant. We conferred degrees on the most pedantic among us and fought bitter disagreements over the proper spellings of the janitors’ names, which we never remembered when we met them in the halls. We had paper cuts on our tongues from trying to taste genius. Our noses bled ink. Sometimes, in the alleys between the marbled halls we’d built with our parents’ money, we saw dirty, paint-smeared things, swaying in time to their spray cans as they applied the slightest dash of color. Our security force would wait until the paint dried before locking them in the highest towers where everything below looked like something we couldn’t define.

About CL Bledsoe

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