2:32 PM PDT - Jun. 28, 2004
like flies
it is so much the quiet, the low whirr of the small electric fan, the housefly that made it all the way up to the ninth floor just so it could buzz at my orange desk, the forty watt amber light at my desk that i do not really need and so i turn it off now. it is so much the half-filled coffee cup from this morning, the diet Coke i can't finish, the two-thirty that tells me my life is nothing more than this dry seat and how job is to spend all day waiting for others to fail. i should really go home. play with my son. talk to him some more. because after all he will soon talk on his own, want his own clothes, worry about being too fat or too short or unable to dunk a basketball because the legs i gave him were made for fighting not jumping. that my every day is meant for him, his eyes and cheeks that light up like candles when the power goes out of Los Angeles at night, like candles his arms that can't quite brighten all the way around my shoulders but he tries to anyway, da da no cry he says, and slaps my tears like flies.
