Kiosk
| Mr. Crackberry Fumbled for his CrackBerry, rubbing a finger around his sore ocular region. Thumbed a four-line reply to his shmutz-faced schmuck of a boss. Txted a “feed Merla so she doesn’t die” to his housekeeper. Asked his secretary back in Hermosa Beach is his 52nd birthday really was tomorrow. Remembered his annivorcerry was the day after. Should he send something? What would he send? Can’t make Andrea's graduation at Wesleyan. Horrible, yes, but the bitch wanted to stay with her mother, so the feminazi got what she deserved. No men in her life. He caressed his toe underneath his Prada loafers. They were wise toes, well-worn, plenty of mileage docked with the rare tune-up. His cheeks had taken the weightier toll. They’d OD’ed on Gillettes long ago, but his conscience once suffered from voting Republican. But no longer. Fuck Barack, Hillary, Rudy, John, Mitt, Rudy, and Johnny #2. Massaged his left foot now, real deep tissue; right foot swept the industrial grey carpet with its impatience, honed by a lifetime of laborious upward social mobility. Taking a while to adjust to the Bush Economy. Ears tired of cliches and I love you, but I love your AmEx more’s, tuned out boarding calls and don’t leave your baggage unattended or we’ll really fuck you up’s. Eyes sore from spreadsheets and radiating screens with condescending keyboards in front of them. Hands tired of comforting schizophrenic, gold-digging wives. Lips too sleep-deprived to kiss, much less elucidate. Hair no longer pretending to be monogamous to his scalp. Hollow oxygen burns his lungs, and the monotonous lull of a hyperactive world enables him to sleep. |
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