Wednesday, March 26, 2014

Time Is A Flat Tire


What happens is I can either lie in bed from 4 a.m. until 6 a.m. thinking about how my prick boss and half the drivers on the Beltway treat me like I'm a paper bag full of old lady germs and cataloging my health problems and insurance bills, or I can write a poem every day of the month of April as part of NaPoWriMo.
It's a ritual. A big, bad, fuck you ritual that ranks somewhere above sitting at my cubicle whistling the merry CeLo song and somewhere below quitting.
All respect, I do love you guys. PJ sez: you're not rid of me. All it ever takes is one word of encouragement. Let us hope that one word is not "regret."
I was going to say, there's nothing stopping you, too, from participating in this ritual, but that's presumptuous of me. For all I know, you could be trapped in an abandoned subway tunnel wearing a Cthulhu hat. But there's the link, if you wanna.
I'm not sure if I can do it. My brain is not functioning like a product of the divine clockmaker these days.
But I'm still running. Whenever I can get the aforementioned motherfucker to stop piling the work on, or when it's not as cold as Appalachia up in here.
Somewhat anticlimactic, no? You were hoping for something more cosmic horror? Next time.
Image: True Det, Bro.

3 comments:

David said...

Yikes
You're too close to those
Flat tires wheening out---wheeeeze
Their last fart air.
Even the sun ducked in a cloud
Afraid it would ignite their fair
Words--wheeeze--"We're up on Mexican Lucky" which it knew were not theirs.
The sun knows all the trees' secrets
In trunks above the discarded tires
Along a country road.

David said...

Leave your comment--wtf
I already did
Google
you're an asshole

Maria Padhila said...

Would love to see you, David. Glad you're not trapped in an abandoned subway tunnel.