Wednesday, March 20, 2002

the abyss before me

monitor all aglow. the sharp angles of the plasterboard walls to the right and to the left. slipping around the back towards the input channel, i slither down the arrow stamp into the wind, passed the socket exhange system. i can see the motherload stretched out across the darkened technorizon. dust pockets abound in the corners and above. the exterior hum now becomes a piercing, suffocation agent of sonic terror. my work can not be completed. i exit in haste and the florescents attack my senses until i crumble to the linoleum. there i lie amongst the scholastic morning may lay and the discarded tools of the trade. noone to notice, my doom is eminent. only now can i enjoy myself, in the peace and the solitude of this desperate moment of lingering life. the tackle truck rumbles by outside, the foreigners are busy communicating with their punch pads and the all night vendors are retiring their wagons. the time whirls around like a speeding recycling truck in the early am hours. wasted and sweaty from my self inflicted delirium, i wander through the vacant halls of my mind. the linoleum wraps itself around my thinning torso. strecthed out and abandoned, i grasp for the lone source of nutrition, a meaningless and meager morsel. in one fell swoop, i injest what appears to be a dried and damaged walnut. i am content. the sweat subsides and i fill with a warmth, a complete sense of wonder invades my body and my upper eyelids begin a slow motion journey towards my lower lip. i have been infected by a rotten walnut. i join the other side. i no longer exist.

Friday, March 15, 2002

static stapler

floral arrangement falling from the overhead. bouncing sisters emerging from the nunery. look, it's maria over there with the green frock and the birthday clock. ticking and tocking the hours pass by. apple fritters and lipstick stains. unsold merchandise and dreams packed upstairs. $7.71 each with a quantity discount if over 250. glossy print and shrinkwrapped for your convenience. slap down the flatback and wallow in your arrogance. you night shift practitioner. you deserve the back breaking trust fund that waits for you in the silver bullet bank. back up. pack up. you're in it for the long haul. save your voice, you'll need it for the tunnel.

Wednesday, March 13, 2002

waiting for the hatching

the days turn into weeks, the weeks into years, the years into tears, and the tears into beers that slide right through you. down through the braghuh and the briguh and the bobagaloon. the slap happy flippin and the granpappy floppin and the jimminey cricketdagroodle, da grottle. a lot to expect from a happy whore who just sold her store. the least she could do is sell the well behind her vacant lot, open up the plot. not much more than an evening bore but somethin to satisfy the middle man stuck between the lines of age. read between em. it's hard to see em but they're there. wedged between here and now and then and there. easy to conceal, easy to reveal. peel slowly, discover undercover. the dust and the rippled plastic can not hide what lies inside for their is wisdom from within the confines of the coverings that we all wrap around our sleeveless gowns and tailored tops. sleek and smooth, they attempt to soothe the pressure in the hose we all try to compose. it doesn't matter what's in the batter, it's what's on the ladder, waiting for the climb you can't manage, the cost you can't cover, the course you can't complete, the enemy you can't defeat. all of this laying there in front of you, the mess of your life, the dreams that came true, the beautiful blue, the solvent on the base, the charm of the case, the socks that are not matching, right there on the bed. all the while, waiting for the hatching.