Monday, September 5, 2011

Deadlines, Timeclocks and Paychecks, Part II

The sound.  I can't even trust the sound.  There are too many sounds.  There's one of two bus lines populated with buses.  They drive the fat people to work.  There's a timeclock to punch.  I punched one once, for years.  I entered through the employee entrance, punched one.  It was 1987.  It was just yesterday that I punched out.  The men had all died, and the women changed their names. I forgot to write something down.
Inside the lake, a bulging lake called life, we walk on submerged sidewalks.  A young fellow sits at a cafe table, curbside, and types away on a really old manual typewriter.  I would ask him who his heroes are, but I don't care and hums of Lou Reed are overhead.  In the next doorway a young guy sleeps, although by the looks of him, he may be dead.
And a deadline nears.  This shit, and that's really what it is, has to get done.  And should that happen, I hope to collect a paycheck.
Still, we're nowhere close to it, and we are nowhere.

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