Entertainment

Finger Pointers.

They (that is those around me, those with black robes
and condescending eyes who whimsically sit in stadiums
of condemnation), act like I am some pariah for rocking
the secretary’s world, for parting her hair, for
spreading her legs and meandering gladly
in phallic glee, as if lunch at Mickey Dees wasn’t enough.
They celebrate to music, almost,
this gossip rotation,
this penetration of honed whisper
in lunchroom and water-cooler rendezvous.
They build upon me, as if I were a clay-free foundation.
And for what?  For a need to saturate marble busts
with a kind of catalytic, contentious mucus?
Is this vicarious bubbling, pools of
unsatisfied desires
made to simmer at my expense?
I feel a celebration
six inches, roughly, below my navel,
in regions damned by Sunday morning sermons,
and I synchronize my rhythms with the drive’s gentle
vibrations as the two of us return in her Honda Civic.
Back among employment’s stadium,
I behold fraudulent faces.


23 Lines
Writer’s Cramp
March 3, 2014