Im all alone in a cube near the XXXXX building, so far away from life and love that I can hardly believe it.
The heat is blasting at a thousand degrees and the slant of the building gives me a constant feeling of vertigo.
I’ve had so much caffeine and sugar that I feel like im breaking apart.
I want to simultaneously fall asleep and drive a speeding car…making my getaway, superhero style as I break into a freestyle. I try to think of the rhyme I’d spit. I lean back with a large yellow legal pad on my lap and get as far as:
Raised by mothers
Fucked by men
A generation of writers
Who don’t use pens
Fuck epic stories
Fuck guts and glory
We write fake biographies
about our imaginary best friends--
Then we spell-check letters never sent.
Whore out and fuck for the rent.
Hump our way to the top of the tent
At Fashion Week.
A c-note just to peak
And a grand to watch.
I get this far before I’m rudely interrupted by a series of phone calls, all from the same woman, the one I’m supposedly working for, who is “offsite” while I finish creating her pivot tables.
She wants to know if I can massage the data a little more, even if it means staying an extra hour and I think of all the things an hour can buy and I close my eyes in the jungle heat and say yes, sure. That’s what I do. Massage Data.
When we hang up I go on to my innernet and leap jazzily from node to node, like Spiderman swinging through the midtown jungle.
I’m just checking in.
This is how I find myself when im lost.
thx 2 both hands