Wednesday, March 23, 2016



He wore the most conventional plastic leather outfits.
                                                                    —Robert Glück

They keep laughing and snorting in my department.
Or in my general direction.  All I have to say about this
is “I am asleep.  At work.  In pain.  My foot.  For lunch.”

Over here, I should probably ask for some water.   It
probably won’t happen until I snap.  And when I do
snap, I’ll do it silently, whispering “Garçon?” as you

look at me with such distaste.  All I get a kick out of
is you.  This is so incredibly true that I fiend for just
twenty minutes (or so) on some sort of ski-like machine.

But what do I get instead?  Blisters.  In my ears.  To the
tune of When the Missiles Whistle....   The perfect boy-
friend.  I mean, seriously, is that even an actual song?