Snuffleupagus aka Cankle Crust

task: our coach gave us a task to write about someone you are not... i had a really great idea, but since i didn't have my computer, i my thoughts turned to this lady that works with me, I call her cankle-crust..... it's not finished...

i hear it again..
it's not time.
no, it's time..
i know

it's 10 am
and i
swallow
stagnant air,
LOUDLY!
gulping expressions
looking for conversation
in empty cups
with circled caffeinated
stains
and rouge lips.
they tease me.
mouthing in
my direction,
clinging to whispers
and secrets.
the cracks and chips along
their edge taunt me.
illustrating the
silence,
before
outlining
the dull roar
hum
then
ding
of the microwave...
it all
hangs along the
balance of empathy
without sympathy.
they too,
ignore me.

i drink time,
as if it were a 9.00 quart
of cheap scotch.
I am a drunk,
dying to find reality
at the bottom of that bottle.
bowing into borrowed existence,
not wanting to recognize
the loaner
had bad credit
and was bankrupt
long before I...

well, it shows
in the crease of
my forced smile.
the seam in my hose,
that runs frantically 'round legs
and ankles that meet
like wide stumps of trunks
in densely dark forests..
i have aged,
chasing silenced dreams
and laughter.
i can't remember
the last sense of familiar
or the first hints
of connection.
it's been 9 days,
4 hours, 16 minutes,
32, 33, 34,
35, 36 seconds.
and counting.
backwards,
the breaths of air
swallow me whole;
leave me wanting,
suffocating in my
insolent chatter.
clamoring bouts
with self
and clandestine
orifices
that speak to me
in languages
i don't quite understand.
or hear.
here
inthismoment
i am visible
to naked eyes
that clothe
cheeks
that turn
toward one
another
for

to be continued..
kdtaylor 2006
section 8 coffee publications
all rights reserved