My Cardboard Balcony

St. Patrick Doesn't Live On Mars by Belinda Roddie Sitting atop a Catholic spire, I try to paint the sky white with my fingers. I want to erase all the color so I can see clear to outer space, out where a lovely lady sits in a spaceship and carries a Bible with no God, but wow, does it preach love, love, love. I cough and wince as my spittle flies. I hate that I spray rainbows everywhere. Just walking downtown, I leave neon footprints on the dark, cracked asphalt. I want to find a radio and tune it to just the right station, where my alien paramour waits to communicate, her language mingling beautifully with mine, eventually sounding alike and meaning the same thing: Love, love, love.

"You are seriously disturbed." "No." My voice sounded foreign to me. Half-garbled, half-growl. "I am enlightened. I see the world as it is, not as I desire. Even the colors are different now. Their real shades. Not to be described by petty language." "You need help." "Shut up!" I snarled. I grabbed his arm. "You speak from ignorance! I will teach you to speak from the highest pinnacle of knowledge."