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Rebuilding Organs  
12:08pm 18/06/2016
 
 
The Masqued Man


Sleeping all day, well, sleeping in, until 6:30.  One pants, as if the car wreck of a night had just ended.  Time to inhale some toothpaste, splash on your face and slap your keys in your pocket as you sprint to the curb to the bus/car.  How do you get around?

There's a stack of magazines in my bathroom and one article title on one cover says "Rebuilding Organs."  Are they church organs?  Or are they the organs of the human body that someone is repairing?  Or perhaps someone has invented a bizarre machine, called it an organ, and all this machine does is re-build things.  It's probably one of these things that the article is about.  I have not read it.

As the landscape dilates past the treated window I think about the pangaea of my past self, that soft clay ball adolescent in whose tiny cracks of character I now must navigate as vast fault lines of self weakness. That little stream of loathing now a fully-formed seasonally flooded depression.  That wandering eye now a beastly cyclops. My strengths of course have equally expanded, some crust over the valleys, others chip flake and fray at the edges of me as I bake to perfection.  Oops, I'm done.  Time to go to work.

Type those words, bub.  Add those numbers.  Read conclusions into that graph.  Let us tidily convene our weekly teleconference. Don't forget to look out the window over there, there near the corner office.  All this can be yours for 15 fluorescently lit bucks an hour. Is it lunchtime yet?  Are we done here???

Between 4 and 4:11 I took a trip on Google Maps to the place my ancestors came from, 700 years ago.  Then I took a look at real estate near Nuiqsut, Borrego Springs, along Crab Orchard Lake.  Thank you for calling how may I direct your call?  Another political obloquy to avoid, or survey indirectly, head-on, regret. Refresh. Refresh.  Flush.

Why can't we just meet people?  People who are interesting I mean.  Click.  Amazon.  Prime?  No thanks.  I'll just go to the bar and find 13 other guys, tonight's suite in the weekly deck.  I am the King of Cups.  What's that pain behind my rib?  Another IPA, hun?  Moths around the patio light.  Two moons dancing in the window.  I am unable to make any distinction between them.
 
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