The Call Center Dreams of O. Hunt

Telephones ringing like fireflies flashing —chaotically at the beginning of each work shift when you mount your cubical chair spinning it around coming up heads over tails Tones on Tail playing from cassette tape an old Walkman left by your time-stagnant predecessor Firefly phones flash in unison now Plug earbud into right ear and then slip headset microphone earpiece over left ear Switch on incoming calls an unfamiliar voice floods your brain Conversations piggy- back each other over each other into a chain of checkboxes checked into breaks out back coffee, talk, snacks and then you're peering back at yourself from restroom mirrors while coworkers come and go You lock in the darkest spot in your colorblind amber eyes myopia dissolves away away away Sand on the beach warms your bare toes Each one loving the warm cushion as dry turns to moist turns to wet and the little waves are lapping happy feet ankles calves Sun is the solution a forward thinker flanked by friends on a dreamy sun- day-to-day the work is gone Call center background crashing tele- phones calling no more away away away dissolving in salt- water @kshawnedgar

I hate you. 

I hate your flawed love. I hate your selfish decisions and all the unneeded crualties. Your mistakes and your miscommunications are forever scratched into my guts, and a poision is there, distilled from your absuses, killing each cell of me again and again. 

You never meant what you said, your words seldom matching your thoughts. And I hate you for that. Your deeds in front of me were only airbrushed magazine images, designed to fool me, to content me. 

Why? Because you didn't want to hurt me? You hurt me, you betrayed me.

I hate you because you were broken on arrival. Your apparent wholeness and freshness false, just shattered pieces of girl propped up by courage and style.

Beyond all, we should have been forever; you promised and inscribed it. So now, I guess, I hate you the most for using and discarding 10 years of my life. The best part of my 30s -- I'll never get back. And that is your fault.  

I hate you, forever and always. I mean it even if you don't.

Don't Marry the Broken One

I hate you. 

I hate your flawed love. I hate your selfish decisions and all the unneeded crualties. Your mistakes and your miscommunications are forever scratched into my guts, and a poision is there, distilled from your absuses, killing each cell of me again and again. 

You never meant what you said, your words seldom matching your thoughts. And I hate you for that. Your deeds in front of me were only airbrushed magazine images, designed to fool me, to content me. 

Why? Because you didn't want to hurt me? You hurt me, you betrayed me.

I hate you because you were broken on arrival. Your apparent wholeness and freshness false, just shattered pieces of girl propped up by courage and style.

Beyond all, we should have been forever; you promised and inscribed it. So now, I guess, I hate you the most for using and discarding 10 years of my life. The best part of my 30s -- I'll never get back. And that is your fault.  

I hate you, forever and always. I mean it even if you don't.

Feynman: Little things that Jiggle

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Jiggle, jump and jive