dialectalogue (1)

A: “man best you can say of everything is that I’m sick of these days, these days nothing changes, it’s sick man nothing changes here best you can say. B: man I don’t even know these days, If it ain’t everything changing though that’s the best you can say. Man, I’m sick of these days, feels like nothing is the same, no changes man I don’t even know these days feels like everything is best as the same old nothing. A: I mean CHANGES, though! Though man I feel like everything is the same these days and I don’t even know nothing these days, I don’t know these days, don’t know nothing Except I’m sick of these days same old changes here best you can say. B: every change is the same old nothing and nothing changes, these days change nothing and change changes nothing. nothing? nothing changes everything these days, I don’t even know nothing these days Change done come through and changed everything, And nothing doing is the best you can say. (At the same time) A: but I sure am sick of how everything these days stays the same and nothing changes and I don’t even know, don’t even know nothing Best you can say is that the old changes need changing B: but changes done changed nothing and everything done these days changed nothing and I don’t even know, Don’t even know nothing Best you can say is that nothing needed changing (Together) A&B: and I’m sick of it.”

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paycheck

Eyes red, bleeding inside Like I worked a damn day. I did. I sat like a squeaky robot Knees creaky, wrists carping, elbows rusted joints arranged according to company policy. Knuckles cracked on their keyboard, at their labor. I think that they think that I think that I walked off the victor, because today is a Friday and they owed me money. And I got it. But it’s not the good kind of getting what you’re owed, like on the big screen, where you’ve got the Louisville slugger and the guy has the whimpering fear. It’s the other kind, the kind where you wake up sweating about an empty envelope and an HR lady who has heard it all before, heard every idiot fret out an hour behind that company grin. And that is the real question, better Than “to be or not to be” Or “am I my brother’s keeper” Or even “what does it all mean?” The real question You ask into the mirror with Eyes wide and reddening is "“What am I going to pay the lawyer with If they don’t give me my paycheck?”

man of steal

“Just the facts, Ms. Lane,” And he was again a blue wall of silence Guns poking out of his sleeves And holster. She wiped paint from her eyes. “Well, the psycho wore glasses, officer. Tall, white, handsome - I would’ve said a newscaster, but too tan. I would’ve said a golf-pro, but too many muscles. I would’ve said a lunk, but he set his lips like a scholar. I would’ve said a librarian, but he glared. I would’ve said a soldier, but his eyes were too wild. I would’ve said a revolutionary, But I don’t think he had anything to say. I would’ve said a police officer, But then he’d be you, Officer Kent.” Officer Kent’s learned lips Spread across his sun-darkened face As he moved his powerful, taut arm up To scratch his perfect straight nose where glasses did not sit. “Ms. Lane, I don’t think You have to worry about the police Dipping a raccoon in whitewash and swinging it around your house and we sure don’t have the time to repaper your powder room with copies of the Internationale. Besides, I don’t wear glasses.” She sighed. He was right, glasses Were an inescapable blemish An unsightly mark That immediately confirmed one’s identity. “I suppose you’re right.” Officer Kent smiled. “I’ll stick around tonight, ma’am, to give you a little peace of mind. There’s no telling whose out and about these days.” Lois smiled. “My hero. You know, I’ve got the funniest feeling That something is wrong. There’s too many yahoos, Bank robbers, low burglars, human cats, Face-painted villains, reds, and evil-geniuses around. I can’t help but think That things shouldn’t be so rowdy, So loud, so exciting. Listen to me Prattling on. Thank you, officer. Goodbye, now.” She closed the door. This superman, Satisfied that he was alone Turned to his cruiser. He opened his trunk And pushed the dead, dripping raccoon Onto the stack of papers in French, Leaving a white smear. He pressed a hidden panel In the wheel well of his trunk took out his glasses, and made for the driver’s side door. He unbuttoned his shirt with each step, dragged the blue curtains away and on stage beneath his glittery grin was tattooed the anarchy A

garbage

The basket tinkles, jingles, squishes full of, charmingly shreds Memos, mission statements, mid-life crises Calendars, calipers, Christmas portraits, Post-its, pencils, performance reviews Rave reviews of restaurants, resumes, rolodexes (still?) Staples, stationary, stock-sharing options Overtime, overtime, overtime (fuck!) Flexing folders, full files, faded memories My id (accidentally), my paystub and my life. But My interests, my politics, my ideas, My conscience, my clothes, My objections And my time Clang, ring, rock back and forth Into the bucket. Everything I throw in the garbage is too loud and people are starting to guess about me. I will have to be more careful About what I throw away and more quiet.