Running away/escape

Running away/escape

Claustrophia and bacon

Tussle gabbing gossip

I hate her and I eat lunch with her

My stomach hurls the stories she drips

from her mouth on the receiver her earwax bleeding

down out onto the keyboard.

She complains about the amount of work

she has to do. I complain about the amount of words

she has to speak.

But sometimes she gives me strawberries.

I am easily bought.

I am a cowboy riding into the sunset, my horse’s feet catch

on the telephone and computer cords, fax machines and aerosol cans of desk cleaner.

But we’re making progress.

Little green mosters made it to the news.

I want to escape the pants I am in. They are ugly and so are my shoes.

The streams of consciousness are escaping my unediting fingers.

My mouth is silenced. I will write.

From the corner of my I catch the freeway.

It silence and the printer is roaring complaints of torn pieces of paper.

My lips do not even breathe.

The chocolate milk is making me sick and I need to escape.

Global worming into my ears the complainer begins complaining again.

She is teamed with the company itchbay.

They word their clients their lives to death.

I need to escape this landscape of fancy lunches and of debt and hopelessness of families eaten alive by little green monsters.

You can not love two masters.

The clock. Your time. My time. My boss has not said hello to me. They better hire someone soon.

I don’t want to wait for our lives to be over.

Paula Cole has escaped Dawson’s Creek on reruns and has entered my head, hair army pits and all.

Cynthia is shouting into the phone again to the broker who can not hear anything.

We all ask ourselves how we got here and how we are going to escape until we stop asking.

I put a reminder in outlook so I wouldn’t forget to keep asking those questions that demand action or they turn you to rust.

Don’t rust my friend. Escape the snatches of the little green monsters.