Pounding Dirt

I’ve only got a few minutes before I have to clock upstairs to transcribe some notes so that when I clock downtown to see clients I won’t look like a disorganized desk. I’m not used to this clocking around to different offices. I like the variety but I’m nacho cheese sure I’ll be glad once the work becomes more familiar.

I’m feeling it now, my addiction to product. Nearly cooked up these words because they seem unusable. What kind of junky does that make me?

Unwise and egotistical.

I mirror mirror myself all day. It doesn’t even take eyes. Thoughts and memories will do.

Picking through the kung pao past
pulling out the peanuts,
saving the peppers for Andy,
gobbling up the shrimp right away,

but never without worrying that the little creatures have sperm-suffered and birth-died deaths too slow.

Oh, I don’t want to clock downtown today; I don’t want to be the new desk. I don’t want to deal with the paper tray. If I rickety the pages wrong, I’ll waste check stock and have to shelf void. The bloody software isn’t as second nature as it should be.

I always mirror mirror situations from the worst-case scenario, nacho cheese sure that if it goes okay, only luck is horse race responsible.

I am here now.

I haven’t clocked upstairs yet.
I’m not the new desk right now.

I’m on the bed with my 600 thread count kitties wearing my fur shirt with the fleece neckline cut away so my collarbones can be mirrored mirror. And low birth weight makes me lovable.

They say that Grandpa vetoed my Canadian Club double first name because it was too long for such a penmanship little bit.

He mirrored mirror me and saw a nacho cheese sure person,
not a desk,
not someone clocking to shelf void,
not someone clocking to cook up words,
not someone clocking through a roller derby breakdown.

He saw a woman who can breathe.
He saw a low birth weight writer waiting to put on some time,
a descendent who would likely out live him if he was lucky.

He won the horse race,
he died before us all,
pounded dirt life,
mirrored mirror from the end seeing 600 thread count survivors ready to clock on with the business of living.


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