Wednesday, January 16, 2002

cubical zarconia

strapped to the edges of the imaginary cubical, he wanders and wonders out loud. noone here around to hear. noone here around to fear. blasting the air horn and waiting for the catholic freaks to drop their gym bags and lift up their shades. getting paid for sitting. getting paid for spitting. getting paid for quitting. playing in the compost pile of machine makers and modern day machismo masters. going to school to become a shoulder campanion and instant assistant top soil replenisher. the glue drips off the edge of the table and lands on the paperclip wedged between the aging linoleum and the folded message regarding the shoe removal policy back in the 80s. filing cabinets store the stories of phone calls, invoices and misplaced check books and miscommunication and drop dates and delivery instructions. the chronological vertical boredom of decades and decades of victims misplaced by reality.


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