Archive for November 6th, 2012

Today, Who Can I Blame?

I want to unclench my fists,
let go of this tract, this uninhabited
basement, be rid of this grizzly who crawls
through my hair, pulls my eyes to flash
pain points, slams my fingers when I try
to open doors to brightening projects,
slaps me with the back of claws as I seek
glimpses of murky, slickly gray happiness,
throws me down stairs with darkening curves
until I walk blindly in halls, hearing the screams,

You fool, you failure. Who allows you to live
and pretend you make a difference, pretend
you live with purpose? You fool, don’t you see
Momma Grizzly? She tells you to give up, to crawl
out the tiny bathroom window while sliding
on the oiled tiles, pale blue and flu white,
fall into the final resting hell where you belong,
and do you listen? No, you flail about as if
there is some value to the gray matter
in your skull, as if some day you might
feel good, feel fresh, feel worthy.
Son, son, son, stick your fingers
in the dark sockets, tighten
the Baggie over your face.


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Freddy’s a Mess – The Paragraphs That Knocked Me Dead

{What follows is the passage that killed my Wrimo spirit on day 3. It was too directionless, purposeless for a novel, so I am back to writing other stuff, but I thought I’d share this meandering passage…}


The morning marches in uneven increments. We think we understand how time progresses as we work, whether we’re pulling weeds or dinking and dunking with numbers. We think that work gives us some regularity to our experience of time, but in reality, we imprison ourselves in boxes of ticks as if we’re stomping our feet, marching to the beat of a drummer who will never die, who thuds with the pulp of an inflated heart, and we feel hairs changing to gray, feeling at the same time perhaps an opportunity to defer the gray.

The carpets are well worn and on some days, Freddy sees 100-mile-an-hour tape all over various loose threading portions of the carpet, but there aren’t any portions like that. Freddy seems to transport himself to a spot in the future when the carpet has never been replaced but the workers have been there all along. We wear through these paths in the carpet as we go to the restroom or often, back and forth between the break room. In the break room, every time he’s there, Freddy reflects on all of the large drinking vessels that get filled with purpose and wonders why anyone with these jugs would ever need to go back multiple times per day. We’re all good like our websites say. We spend our days drinking gallons and gallons of water. Coffee and water get tossed all over the rug, usually after the jugs have been filled, and the rug has amazing resiliency as the liquids seem to evaporate as you watch, before you could ever grab a roll of paper towel. But all of these liquids through all of these years must rob the carpet of beauty. There’s no way to think of it otherwise. Then there are those times when all of the people in the cubicle farm, gradually filled with an increasing despair, a destitute that grows like mold, surely billions of spores of that stuff growing through the carpet fibers. Those cubicle farm people need a break from the bleating of the insanity, from the pounding of the ping of the fluorescent lights, keyboards with varying degrees of greasy finger stains and oceans of crumbs between the keys making all of the sounds fuzzy with the clickishness, and they leave the cubicle suite and flow into the giant building hallways, normally riding the elevator known to be something like an Read the rest of this entry »

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