Sunday, May 14, 2006

Paul 101, Paul 101

I wrote this 3 years ago when I tried spending some time in an office pretending to work.

The rumbling hum of an aging air conditioner that rattles the floors when it turns on or off.
The ziggity-zag of a printer well past its prime - on loan from the museum of antique technology.
The seeking whine of a dial-up modem negotiating a connection.

Peppered with the random musings of bitter mid-level so-called professionals.
The din and cacophany shoots over and through me.
I am surrounded by noise and startled by P.A. announcements too loud so it can be heard over the chortling air conditioner.

"Paul 101, Paul 101"

The phones don't stop ringing.
The chit-chat chattering.
This place is too cold, turn off that damn air conditioner.
Someone please find Paul and tell him to pick up 101.
If I hear his name again that motherfucker is done.
Paul's not here, just take a damn message, he'll call back when he's done recovering.

Spend time in coal mine and you'll become dirty.
The soot will find your skin wherever you've left it exposed.
I want to remain clean,

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