office noir

murmuring opens the scene
a dull white light flickers
above a cubicle on the corner.
the view is
beige and grey.
a solitary figure
hunches over a cup
of day-old joe.
geometrics strewn in black
and white,
low and high--
it's the 21st c. landscape
the 9-5 skyline of
inbox and outbox
and everywhere in between.
our protagonist sits between bars
of black shadow cast by venetian blinds,
punctuating ripples of burgeoning cellulite
and wafts of smoke
from the fax machine.
Femme fatale isn't sexy any more
she's cancer
and carpal tunnel,
and back pain--
it's lame
it's lame
it's lame--
and all the action is going down
the monetized


why i love my husband

true love is sitting on the couch for six hours and complaining about each others' movie choices.
true love is laughing loudly and comparing us to slugs, sliming on the pavement, wallowing.
true love is cooking kettle corn, and painting with watercolors, and drinking beer.
true love is doing your laundry.
true love is badmouthing coworkers in the basement, door shut tightly, whispering to avoid outsiders.
true love is whining when you play the guitar too loudly.
true love is smelling feet.
true love is when you steal my car and secretly fill it up with gas.
true love is recycling.
true love is simultaneous exercising, painfully, so that no one feels like mowing the lawn.
true love is sweet tea, a jammed disposal, and moldy bath-tiles.