1.
My hands have accommodated themselves to the rote
shift of levers, the tranquilizing muzak, the persistent
tap of mute digits, the insistent flow
chart blip blip blip blip blip blip………………
It’s difficult to avoid the gradual merger
with death. The almost imperceptible graying
of the blood until the face dims into an anonymous
grisaille. The hands might as well be monster binder clips
as I collate more blips into preordained sequences. Click by gradated click,
the breathing becomes cog-like. Automatic time punch machine,
controlled by another lever. Voice box clogged with fiber fill.
Eyes laminated in the latest corporate veneer. Paper water cone
dispensers used to leer; now they just blend into the subtle drone
of fluorescent track lights. Bathroom liquid soap dispensers used to look like
robotic cow udders. Hundreds of gray hands
use levers to leave neat imprints
inside the proper lines. Red tooth mark
of numerals. Tiny digits. Tiny dreams deflating like
promotional balloons from some outdated marketing campaign.
Speech bubbles filled with clichés. ‘Go get ‘em, tiger!’
screams a psychotic cat lady, beaming, about to go out in a blaze
of misfiring staple guns, crumbling cubicle walls, confetti
of wan yellow self-adhesive notes, exploding toner cartridge, push pins through the eyes…
2.
My hands let wet toner ink drip all over file folders.
My hands might as well be staple removers with sexy metal fangs.
I blow up the balloons again—bloody crullers,
misshapen phalli, bulbous sausage links about to burst
apart. My daydreams grow increasingly bizarre.
The automatic soap dispenser was a disconnected appendage,
then it was an entire tiny, shiny animal simply chewing its cud,
and now it is cussing up a storm, blowing bubbles, and electrocuting
the upper management team. One of the boob-shaped balloons
asks me if I’d like a raise and I decline. Instead I extend myself,
limb by limb into the automatic shrink wrap machine, giggling
as vivid blood oozes between my teeth and splatters randomly.
The conveyer belt screeches off, jammed with pieces of my hand,
and then starts back up, chugging and spewing my gory chunks
all over mail chutes, in-boxes, box lunches, and Inspirational Posters
like the ubiquitous kitten clinging tenaciously to a branch. Guess what, pussy?
Mucus can be tenacious, too, and that’s called a disorder. Not an inspiration.
Now quit your sniffling and shove your damned hand down the garbage disposal.
It’s better to be mangled than to be numb.