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Colorado Quarterly Magazine 

"Rewriting the Myths, Redefining the Realities"


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No Mail. No Messages.

By Freddy Bosco

Iím in the clear, abandoned completely by those who would alter my course or seek to hitch a ride on my personal vapor trail. I grew up thinking nobody could see me or the pimples under my chin so I cut at them with a razor every night. By the time I encountered observant people willing to speak up and confront me with their perceptions, I was already lost in a dream.

The bubble around me is made for escape and yet I cling to it. Other minds besides my own shoot thoughts like BBs at me. I must rest where I can be myself. I call in to other bubbles; I seek to share my thoughts, to shoot my own BBs that look to me like feathers. Sculpted, curved, friendly.

If I jab at others, do they retaliate? What strength message gets the point across without breaking the skin? My plans have been revised to the extent that the paper is weak and will not take further folding. Everyone else is on a screen. I alone try to commit to parchment my longings. The stores are full of shoppers, but nobody is buying my lies any more.

I peel back the top of my can of worms to glimpse my disease in horror. I gasp, lest anyone else learn what I contain: all the sins multiplied by pride and willfulness. The weight of transgression buckles my legs and I collapse, fainting dead away in dreamless sleep. To awaken is to die but only through awakening can I take another breath and give thanks.

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