Rainbow poaching.

I wrote this with Anne Frank in mind, parts of it are quite autobiographical. Always pictured her as the muse, the voice.

…………

Sixteen floors above what passes for ground, not counting the thirteenth, who excused herself, stating some kind of familiar superstition. You thoughts something about rainbow-poaching as you balanced yourself and hung off the edge of the balcony, and I didn’t know whether to tell you that you could fly or pull you away from the dangers below you. From all that has been read in classic books of great adventure and repute, from truth realized all too young. I wish for a long drive with you on a spring night that has the power to reveal great mystical realities. How sweet the dusty air will smell as wheels kick up – slurring spit and gravel, perhaps flashing lights will usher the vehicle with mad institutional authority to the shoulder of the southwest highway. You were not as shaken as them to find such contraband (truth) hidden in the dashboard, it was a relief to know it would arrive before you. I can almost hear the strain in your gentle voice as you reluctantly imagine all of your fatherbrothersisterhood hidden behind bars, which ironically is already the case. Too many years of trying to make “grown-up” future plans, and stubbornly ignoring the true pains of escalation. I always watch you. Gripping your head in fervent disbelief at the enormity of your own thoughts, pen dancing fiercely across blank pages of youth, forced to shove them restlessly to the side and once again search for the key to free your kin.