Ugh moods. Ugh work.
Separation.
Blurred lines.
Results.
Teams.
Corporate.
Communication.
Trauma. Trauma. Trauma.
In this office
trauma overflows like
lava or sewage
uncontrollably oozing
around corners,
under office doors
and down hallways.
Like the old 1980’s (?) film –
The Blob.
Cataclysmic.
Metamorphosis.
Swallowing.
Choking.
Suffocating everything in it’s wake.
Porous skin and
porous walls.
Doors left ajar as is office procedure.
Closed office doors to promote truth-telling, or complaining –
or toxic gossipy behaviour.
Swept up in complaints that
overtake the day with
negativity, toxicity,
confusion and pain.
The sun would stream in on a dusty angle.
I was near the fire exit – this meaning will probably reveal itself to me in a wonderful writing piece filled with paradox, metaphor, and whimsy.
I would film the shadows of the trees and their leaves gently dancing on my wall.
Mountains can maintain calm, sturdy stature while chaos swirls and blows by.
Rubber-soled shoes.
Business casual dress.
Not enough to prevent the steady seeping of toxic behaviour and abuse from sinking into the skin, the heart, the marrow.
DNA.
We are shaped by experiences – no one else can be more me than me, and no one more you.
Morons – less often.
Convoys of lemmings lead tyrants off cliffs.
She turns away and smiles, or smurks, eyes twinkling.
Forerunners forlorn afforded their place – pacing passed roadways and signs for the taking.
Making monkeys drive cars.
Banana splits.
Stretched thin on principles that lack air – vapid ballooned beliefs swollen up on ego – no education.
Vapid air spreads rapidly through thick skulls. Like covid.
No mouth traps – venus fly swatters.
Flat earthers to be heard – herded – together – on the dark web.
A fly stuck in a web cries for attention.
If I don’t believe in this spider it doesn’t exist.
Ugh – sigh – my kiddo is sixteen tomorrow.
Slap an ‘L’ on his forehead for lucky motherfucker. Ha – just jokes, he’s all smiles – interrupting my word genius to ‘be still’ my heart.
That cheeky cocksucker.
He told me yesterday that his friends have a nickname for his pecs – “Moobs”, he said – eyes bright, smile wide.
where rivers are born 