Casually hiding before my face

and it's nothing like the elephant in the room

who serves martinis at midnight.

It's just there subtle and loud

but I was never one to get the subtlties.

Even as I sit, black sunglasses hiding my

cerulean eyes. Leaning in a wood-backed chair

against a brick and plaster wall

I don't get the way it is.

Because it's just there.

batting slate toes before me.

And I've always been too thick for hints.

I'm the bastile and someone is hurting thier fist

by hiting at me.

I won't get it.

one must scream it in my face.

one must paint it out clear as day.

No questioning gestures;

they only make me think that the

puppeteer at their backs has epilepsie.

Candied apples look only like blobs of carmel

to me, I only see the surface.

Never the apple below the sugar.

Those morsels of knowledge slip through my grasp

and pass onto the floor in a sticky display.

It's just sand through a broken hour glass.

The shattered glass leaves a colorful display

rainbowed by so many hours of monotonous crystals.

But I won't see this.

I only see the surface.

And on the surface this is all just

tilted heads, hands on hips and loud words.

I think I prefer the phantom Elephant bartender.