I watch Laura through our adjoining office window
and pray to any god that will listen that she won't pick up the receiver.

I hope my glare burns the cord that...
******.

  Good morning, Mr. Prater.  My names is Laura and I'm calling from Vector Supplies.
    How are you doing today?

Her screech of a voice causes the hair on my arms to stand up.
Her laugh should be one of the layers of hell.

  Hello?  Mr. Prater?

Another customer dropped the call.
If someone with that voice called my home I would demand the manager
and accuse the caller of huffing helium, trying to get high.

She's the worst salesperson in this office.
Frankly, no one is great here.
At least we're better than the northern branch.

The boss, Mr. Leckman, opens the door and slithers into her office.

  Laura, I saw that another customer hung up.

  I'm sorry, Mr. Leckman.  I promise I'm trying.

  Try being more perky like I know you can.

Oh ****.  Don't encourage her you *****.

  And Laura, you can call me Ted, remember?

  Yes, Mr. Leckman.  I mean Ted.

Her giggle almost broke the glass of our window,
and if it had, I would have slit my wrists with the shards.
No hesitation.

I'm still watching the horror show,
and that's when I saw it:

He winked.

That *****.  I knew she was ******* him.
That's the only reason why she's still here.

Sadly, I was interrupted mid-strangle fantasy when Mr. Leckman,
or Ted, barged in.

  Ms. Dunn, get back to work.

  Sorry, Ted--uh, Mr. Leckman.

He had shut the door before I could correct myself.
Great.  I'm sure I'll get fired by the end of this week.
I need this ****-up of a job.  
It's one of the few places that doesn't make you
**** in a cup before you sell your soul.

Maybe I should bend over more often.

I
  get
    frustrated
      with
        time
          spent
            with
          friends
        I
      could
    care
  less
about.
  It
    must
      be
        punishment
          for
            an
              irrevocable
                sin
                  I
                    have
                      forgotten
                        over
                          the
                            years.
                          Karma
                        strikes
                      at
                    dawn
                  ripping
                me
              from
            bed,
          from
        legs
      intertwined
    after
  a
nightly
  cause
    and
      effect
        of
          adoration.
            There
              is
                no
                  hoarding,
                    no
                      trickling
                        of
                          seconds
                            into
                              the
                                new
                                  sun.
                                    There
                                       is
                                         only
                                           residue
                                             left
                                               on
                                                 time
                                                   piece.
                                                     A
                                                       reminder
                                                         of
                                                           the
                                                             inescapable
                                                               labrinth
                                                                 where
                                                                    my
                                                                      mind
                                                                        loses
                                                                          direction.

I envy the free.

The sea was in front of me
and the sea was behind me,
and that was all there was.*

The waves applauded my entrance and
washed the sand from my lost feet.
I was neck deep in a majestic dream,
and the sandman was on my side.
The salt licked every inch of my skin
as I was stripped down to my simplest form,
and the waves awarded me the
approval of my name.
I was serene,
I was free,
and the waves were there to welcome me home.

A golden apple cut my tongue
as gravity began to fail me.
Slowly slowly slowly
the sense of right-side-up
became upside-down.
My skull,
covered in lead, dense,
assured my feet, light as air
remained heals over head.

Devoured carcass of the metal fruit
slipped from left hand
as I chased a white rabbit
quickly                     quickly                                       quickly
over threshold,
out of blue into red
that seeped into light of violet.

The chromatic difference in atmosphere
snapped me from suspension
and my spine, as I fell
s      i      l      e      n      t      l      y
q   u   i   e   t   l   y
LOUDLY
onto tiled floor.
And as I lay stranded and sleep heavy
I felt the cool fur of my prize
before slipping into darkness.

These ivory, ceramic keys have become foreign
to the grooves cutting across my finger prints.
I force the unfamiliar notes
into the dusty air, and smile
because you once whispered
        I love you because no one else can.

I find myself escaping from dreams
and opening doors into different rooms.
Blue and orange striped sheets,
corduroy cushions,
a white, sleepless bed
greet my coffee muddled irises
as I un-glue eyelids from lens.
And as your pale blue eyes pierce through mine
during these influential moments,
I begin laughing as you whisper
        I love you because no one else will.

I have started to count the seconds it takes
for an ant to scurry across my wood floor.
Two hundred and sixty-three days later
I heard a knock on my door.
Sunlight outlines your blackened figure
and we both whisper
        *I love you because I don't know how to love another.

What is there to do
with time you are wasting away?
Sit transfixed to a seat
uncomfortable from wear,
picking scabs of today's work.
Todays that have turned into
years.
Years of wishing for
tomorrows.
Tomorrow's bell ringing your ears.
Wetting your eyes.
Friction between lung and bone.

What are you doing
wasting your time not staring at stars?
Feeling terribly small
and just as large while holding a child's hand.
Writing stories about the dead
while your lovers live in attics.
Trip though snow and
fall into water's embrace.
Tell your mother you love her and
kiss the forehead of your father.
Run through airports to
fly through trees.
You must sing through fog.
Sing while naked in the fog.

What are you doing
passing the truth as fiction?
Winking and crossing fingers
while standing in intersection.
You must catch yourself on fire
to be humble enough to love.
Jump off building to test your faith.
Sleep on the roof and embrace fear's power.

What is there to do with
all the time I am wasting away?

Springhollow.
Something broken, something borrowed.
Friction fighting flesh
Against my white stained pillow.

Middlesex.
Promising perfection in excess.
Cutting palms with lovely letters.
He was seven.  I was six.

Nottingham.
Proclaiming to know the promised land.
Wrecking ball through golden temples.
Romantic fixations.  Romantically ******.