Aug 6, 2014
Poem: On the job (July 2014)
On the job I trust no one (man) in red. Sitting with glitter in and apart of my hands hunching in the back room of my glass cedar store, dreaming up snipers who are smiling for quarters. Then an uproar
of footsteps and muffled harmonica distantly drowning in the mall. I'm less kind than I should be to the giant smiling swarms. Licking one half of my lip raw. Minding the occasional glimpses of midriffs, irrelevantly. Echoes of children shrieking in French. No one could care less as to what degree I am doing my job. All is for quarters and the accumulation of quarters.
