Tag Archives: work

Notes of a Devolver


Trepanned girl's skull [3500 BC, Nat.History Museum, Lausanne (Rama)]

Trepanned girl’s skull [3500 BC, Nat.History Museum, Lausanne (Rama)]


I can’t read the news.
It was easier to understand when I was a boy. Now, the writing seems to be just…words.
People who don’t enjoy what they do – never die. That’s cause they’re never born, they simply exist through life and they hang around like gnats, forever. Doing EVERYTHING, buying EVERYTHING, watching EVERYTHING all the while the grip on their soul gives way and leaves a tattered trail of crisp-withered tears like the leaves in a Twentieth Century autumn. 
Crick! Crick-Crattle, Flip! Crick-Crattle, Flip! That’s the sound of a dying man’s soul turning over, changing color, getting older…


I’ve already explained to Nancy that I’m dying. I feel myself slipping, the rot setting in between my teeth, eating away at the edges of my brain. Have you ever seen your bliss deflate like a helium balloon in the bleak corner of a public school gym in a working-class neighborhood which thinks it’s middle class? (to be in the middle is to be wedged-in-between, safe within someone’s sticky pages. The top or the bottom – but never, never the middle…)



The frantic sea of job interviews and emails and…how hard it is now to even look for work. It has gotten physically harder for transients who don’t want to be transients. Yes, I am one of “those” who don’t have a computer!
And the havoc I have brought upon myself: Bold unflinching masochism!

I’m taking up space. I’m a good person and I try hard and look for the goodness in people (and I usually find it much to the chagrin of most people who act ashamed as if I have found out something about them that they would rather not divulge; I realized being “good” irritates people) and am most grateful when others can overlook my sins or faults and can see a shade, a figment of the man I am trying to be.

But I am taking up space.

And I should either add something beautiful to my surroundings or simply give up the air I am breathing because life – no, the anxiety of life – is simply not worth it. I am ashamed to be part of it. And so I had to say, “YES,” when I was asked because -…Well, because I wanted to be able to tell Nancy I had a job and that I was hired and just once share a moment of victory.

The job starts tonight.
And I need this type of job the way I need a hole in the head.


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On Discovering a Poet Inside Me While At a Day Job

Poets toil, poets sweat, poets even steal to pay the rent.

Even a bad poet has an original thought or two–one worth thinking about…if only he could get from under his boss’ foot.

Submission fees.
Subway fares.
Sounds suspicious to me.

But if they done it to Christ they can do it to you. He was a poet wasn’t he?
A carpenter with ideas that were later hammered home-his own lyrics nailed him to the cross.

It’s 11:03 and I’m still here. I’ve lost my voice. I still fear the emptiness. I’m packing boxes, sanding latches, logging on and smiling so I can sing my songs at night.

What Happened to me?
Somewhere along the line
There was a dash I slipped between
Crossing chasms and ugly paper
Nasty train knees and looks of corporate dough;
Somewhere along the way
They locked my soul and took my place
I donned a mask and hid my face
But I sat at the table so I could eat
Beneath the crumbling sky made of paper Mache’
And tiny bleeding nails.

I may die a nobody, I may work as a slave
But I know in my heart there was somebody
And brave.

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