cOrRidOr tRaFfiC

I see you're trying to worm out of an-
other responsibility, young lady
O little woman,
trying to stop and stop and stop the hands of time,
like trying to stop another cliche
from appearing, radiating, in this monitor screen.
And ha! the rhythym has gone,
the prose doesn't sing
and you're left with an empty,
barren, this wasteland, a sidewalk.

Get on it, get on it, work work work. The week will end and so will this fucking semester with all its crazy professors and bitch-fit girls and boys all coming together, hands held, screaming a cheer, a hosanna, Hallelujah motherhumpers and all your beaten asses. There's gotta be more, there's gotta be more, than 100-point essays you'll never ever get right, reports on bestiality, those short stories and nonfics, laughable poetry you freak, Charles de Calonne and Josephine Beauharnais. Come on, come on, come on, life, get a move on.

Ignore Mr. Whorange Mangoes as he passes you by, don't even think of taking a bite. Come on, life, come on.

So what if you can feel the blood runnning through that corrugated body, if you press back against a damp wall? It doesn't matter if your knees buckle or that your thighs hurt like on a prostitute's first two hours. Come on, life, come on.

Ignore that dampness in your bones, that hollow in your chest. There are no aches in your body, no blacksmith beating away in your mind. Nothing is there, only you, and sixteen just suddenly wooshed by and you've got a half-page curriculum vitae, baby, that you have no idea how to fill. (I can bake a mean cake and dream a wicked wet one.) Stop this suckling of toes, that tickling of my fingers. It won't get you anywhere.

Now work, stop the ranting, this lingering, this ramble. Ignore everything else.

You will float when you are hollow and the wind can take you in his arms and throw you to wherever you see when you turn your face to the sun.

Go, bitch, go.