Saturday, May 25, 2013

In the Office on Memorial Day part 1 of 4- In the Office



In the Office, part 1
I realize I am running away from and towards my own life
Work is like a rapturous beloved blanket of a woman
A stalker of sorts leaving me arsenic post-it notes on my desk
With lipstick for turning the computer on again

The monitors light up with the revving body of software
Accounting system gyrating spreadsheets to design manipulations
To cast aspersions about me to the other programs that I have not gotten around to yet
As if I am a lascivious whore of an accountant

The parade of circumstance of a salaried position that does not pay me a dime more
For being here when I have no place else to go
Statutory release at five p.m. and I am like Red betrothed to Shawshank into the night
In an inescapable progression to see a world out of what was, past haunting, institutionalized

The vision of my role as a father is kept behind an idea professed into a courtroom
Debated, retorted victoriously and I gave it all back to be here
Typing at eight p.m. on a Friday, contemplating coming in most of the weekend
And Memorial Day Monday when the rest of the office is on holiday

The pile of work is one I could ignore if it was not so comforting like a luminous moon
Corporate lycanthrope to wipe my mind to a beastly oblivion,

At least some membership of the community will appreciate or
Profit from my diligence, the rest of my time is spent
Reading, writing, sleeping, or perusing the Internet
Avoiding the conundrum of current socialization

I am vagabond.
Since Katrina I have lived a total of seven months in a place I considered home.
The years stack of raising my infant daughter to one and Boom
The days rolled across the bathroom floor wet like heirloom pearls off clavicles
Boulders with the crucifix golden chain her mother makes her wear to remind me of her

In a perverse attack against my notion of God and love all in one
She most recently added a blue dog-tag with her cell
As if in my allotment I will lose our child or
A near nine-year old cannot remember a phone number

The babble tower teeters and off to Texas and then to Louisiana rural-jamboree
Accounting for water districts and non-profits I get banned for thinking
The days of penalty petrify the expectation of doing for a prescription of persistence
Like a Scopes monkey dancing for cow chips

Survival is appreciating that this day is one day closer to another day where exhale is possible
The chicken bones are in the gumbo.  I am pulling them out one by one; stirring for hours to months to years to one instance to allow a bite from this pot; this homemade attended roux.

“Let me tell you something my friend.  Hope is a dangerous thing. 
Hope can drive a man insane.”

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