I sat with the plant leaf again,
its veins straighter than mine.
The bus ride had ended. Manila steamed.
My shirt, still full of your smell,
even though you hadn’t come yet.
The blinds were half-closed
like eyelids in anesthesia—
and I traced shadows with my pen
pretending I was writing payroll,
but it was always a eulogy.
The dust in the corners of the cubicle
was not debris.
It was proof of my stillness.
Proof I had not been seen.
Proof I was human.
Somewhere a neon ad shouted skin whitening,
but I was already transparent.
A ghost who had filled in timesheets
and cried into broken staplers.
You would come one day.
Not as a lover,
but as a mirror
sharp enough
to open the mouth of the soul.
Categories:
staplers, fate,
Form: Free verse
I used to work.
I sat at a desk and wondered how my house is doing.
At 10:00, I played with a pen.
The sounds of staplers.
Paper being printed.
Beautiful plants that sit in the corner.
That seem to shrink with time.
But never die.
I used to be able to work.
I loved that job.
I loved sitting in the parking lot crying.
The bell on the front door waking me up.
Cookies in the break room.
So good.
I used to:
Do laundry
Clean up the kitchen
Take a walk outside
She walks through the door.
She lets me sleep, even when I’m awake and shaking.
I used to work.
She believes me sometimes.
Categories:
staplers, anxiety,
Form: Free verse
Cartoons and packages, gum stuffed on a box,
Staplers, and fluffy hats, blue yarn full of knots,
A dying rose, stuck tight to the wall,
An overgrown zebra, quite tired and tall.
It’s a pickle I’m in,
It’s a consternation to me,
How my room could be so ridiculous,
So crazy, and free.
I pick up a pen, and I begin to write,
Hoping to forget everything I see in my sight.
I pick up a pen, and turn myself into another being,
I am magical now, a superbly-seeing.
I can fly,
I can flee,
I can growl,
I can hit.
I am a new person,
Imagine it!
Categories:
staplers, write, writing,
Form: Free verse
I am bored with staplers,
Bored with broom-stick makers.
I'm bored with door-knobs
And I'm bored with small blobs,
Found in corners of walls
and too tall stalls in work
Places that blend boredom
With martyrdom and
Demonstrate as they
Inoculate that what you
Perform is part of the
Blessed Storm, or the
Whirling Machine, or
Everybody's Dream,
And you're not, and it's
Not, and they're not.
So be bored with the
Term "due diligence."
And be bored with the
"Rate of excellence."
And be bored with soft
Let-downs, and forced
Cackles and just finish
drawing that tree on the
Moon, which is the only
Thing you really wanna do
Right now. Or real soon.
Categories:
staplers, life
Form: Rhyme
When smacked on the head
is when you earn your bread,
might as well be dead!
Categories:
staplers, life, people, social, sympathy,
Form: Rhyme