July 2005 / Volume Six / Issue Four
Willie Smith

    When I go to the office – take off my coat, sit down, unzip my scalp, snap my skull open, pop out the brain, drop it into the dry electric pan, turn the dial up to fry, take out my spatula and start turning to keep the gray that doesn’t even matter anymore from sticking.
    At ten I go down for hot black. Come back up with gut churning. Jump back to it with the spatula. Noon, go out – bloat my belly with baloney, mayonnaise, more hot black, pepsi, nodoze, anacin, devilled eggs scorched with horseradish.
    Crawling the sahara after one, after one-ten, after one-fifteen, after one-sixteen, the turning slows interminably as the ennui and the angst become a matter for scenarios in a mental ward where gray nurses escort wheelchairs of vomit from where confidence to make it through once was.
    Privy to the end of endurance and entropy’s entry – when scalded brain smells tempting as sandalwood – at three, go down for no donut, more hot black. Come back to attack that spatula with renewed eight-dollar an hour hate.
    At four fifty-seven sharp, turn off the pan, flip the brain back in, snap the skull down, zip the scalp up, slip into the coat. Retreat home to eat the wife, watch a dinner, metabolize the tv – making love to the death of all of the above.
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