Index Moment

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.

Hello.

I’m just checking in.

This is how I find myself when im lost.





sin graph

thx 2 both hands