~
Weather balloon for a hat
propeller on his back
morning is observably alive

leaving it to atmospheric pressure

he consumes today's newspaper
with the enthusiasm of a bowl
of Corn Flakes

this Heath Robinson contraption
of getting to work first
over enemy lines
is all the rage in his satirical
state of mind

that is until the absurd derailment
of wartime employment

and so he returns home with tubes
and catheters attached to his body
and feeling like one
of the unwieldy machines
he had so often created

full of atmospheric pressure

and apparently thinking it
an undignified fate
he pulls out the tubes
and quietly dies
of his own invention
~

I saw a Way, forward
and cloaked myself in the skin
of a Digital dimension.

I began living
cloud-soaring and ascending soft
and the headset came off.

Now even curtains are
retreating, from the light now
streaming into my eyeballs.

Ow! To whit, I prefer
to refer to it now as a Path.

Plans fail, but
Paths diverge.

There she stood
still
despite the chaos
despite the buzz
despite noon time rush.

Placid alongside
the humdrum
the mundane
the same thing
over and again
over and again.

Day in, out
she seeks for reason
some meaning
some place
someone
something or other
to faze her
to move her
to take her
back to living
and not just
breathing.

She asks herself:
What good is surviving
the the struggle and pain
if she spends her days
for nothing
but ceaselessly hoping
for anything to happen
or at least,
to once again feel?

This is what I told her:
Sometimes the way out to depression
feels like becoming a whole new person
but this phase will come
and go
and so
embrace the process of healing
take your time and believe in
yourself and the waiting
will soon be over
and you will start over
another day
another chance
so wade in this circumstance
this inevitable consequence
of losing yourself
and then finding it
again.

A fully qualified journalist,
what path to choose?
I’m not great with breaking news,
I panic too much and get the details wrong,
not very useful under the confines of tight deadlines.

Then there’s the other stuff such as “death knocks,”
while a family is grieving,
there’s no reason to be intruding on their life,
and getting the gory details,
just for a story which improves the page rank,
and Reach PLC can take it to the bank.

Going through people’s bins,
is actually a thing,
but not just dipping in and out,
there’s a plan,
put it in a van,
spread the contents around,
and see what can be found.

This MP talks about healthy food,
which must include no added preservatives,
but what’s this packaging from their fridge?
A chocolate bar?

Is writing a story about this going too far?
Of course not, and we’ll contrive to write a few hundred words,
then run it on page five.

What about an internship?
Three months in London,
unpaid, that’ll cost a bit, who can afford that?
There’s travel money, rent for the flat.
If you’re providing written information for the publication,
they should be made to get you paid.

Anyway, freelance reporting could be the way forward,
work remotely,
and mostly write about things I like,
football, music, and community issues,
which team’s going to lose?
There’s a gig on who’s playing?
The residents are just saying,
“What about these potholes and the business rent controls?”

I can see myself doing this long term,
I need more hours, a few years have gone by,
I don’t want to lose the momentum,
become glum and slip back into the way it was before.

So, you're a shelf stacker?

It's Stock Replenishing Operative, actually.

I mean, I do take stock and stack it on the shelf, but it's an easy job,
and I can do it by myself.

We're inexperienced, part-timers,
full-time staff are corporate climbers,
which is fine, but they really don't like us.

Fill the cage and wheel it out,
steering 'round corners, missing the customers,
don't hit the display,
they'll be hell to pay from the supervisor,
they'll vapourize, ya.

Thirty pots of Pesto,
here we go,
bent over at an angle, strainin' my back trying to untangle the packaging,
it doesn't have to be perfect just get them in.

Where's the footstool?
It's with Abdul, fair enough, I'll help him out,
have a laugh with the staff, it's the only way to get through, until
"Ryan! We need you on shampoo."
So off I trudge, to grab a box,
Neutrogena, TRESemme, and Radox.

That has dragged and dragged, but it's break-time now,
just 20 minutes to figure out how I'll get through the rest,
I'm not stressed,
just bored, very, very bored.

Working here has shown me what I don't want to do.
It's fine for a wage,
but I'd love to engage in something of interest,
a job that suits me best.


Enroll at Uni?
Maybe that'll improve me?
Then away I go, no looking back
and all those things I think I lack
will become history, hopefully.

Reusing old graves

Some of your own blood

Nectar of your soul

To build this nest

This stinging canister

An assembly line of skeletal remains and burning wings

Pushing little armies on the left

Pulling little armies on the right

To march themselves out of existence

Life is a pesticide

Kills the flowers

Kills the connections

Keeps you working overtime

Just to hold on to a place where you can shuffle off this mortal coil

Establish a research and development facility tasked with recycling 100,000 commonly used household goods or packaged products back into the original base material needed to remake it into new product packaging. Pass legislation requiring all companies selling products with packaging to buy their source materials from a registered public-private venture allowing any firm willing to participate to do so. Companies must then manufacture packaging locally using source materials supplied by one of the public-private companies. Companies will also be required to hire locally using a diversity and economic income model incorporating or locating the participating companies in the poorest rural counties in the state.










Society grows great when Old Men plant trees.  -Socrates