The Rose Parade

Alexander Ziperovich

 

Exposed, frozen and smothered in all the shiny gift wrapping of this glistening city, all the billboards say I’ll be a football star, all the tall buildings tell me to come join them blowing countries up, all the people stare dead ahead at nothing so you can never really know how much they plundered, who they murdered, if they drink light beer.

You go out into a sea of police alone sweating like you want to watch the Rose Parade, to watch the people not watching the Rose Parade, to see if any of them have any roses for a person who is indifferent to Rose Parades.

He tells me to put the little balloons in my mouth inside a Starbucks, don’t want to go to the county jail for feeling sad, being one of those people, the insomniac Chernobyl mountain climbing and falling academy.

Back the next day. Somehow things got worse and he was expecting this, him laid out on a grassy expanse in the sun like a toothless God with a shaved head and dried blood on his arm. Something about waiting but I can’t wait “one for thirty sounds fine” and now I walk back and the Rose Parade is over but I’m still carrying on like it’s never going to end.

All you’d expect and more, burger king bathrooms, waiting between people pissing in the handicapped stall trying to make things messier trying to make things blurrier trying to tire out some of these grinning demons, all smiles in the burger king bathroom, come out to sit in the passenger seat on the way back to Seattle from the Rose Parade, not talking, I’m fine, just tired, just so tired you couldn’t believe it.

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