Slammin’ on a Boss pedal. Undeniable tone. Guitar hero. Doused in a cape, face hidden. I don’t know how to be. A man short, but with the features of Gru: Serious face, broad linebacker shoulders and crooked nose. Nothing can make him smile. Dressed all in black because to him, no other colors exist. And he is miserable, pure misery. His shoes are immaculate and finely polished. He doesn’t so much move, but gives sharp glances. He doesn’t so much eat, but chews hard and slowly, swallowing in annoyance. He never has to get dressed or changed, but appears factory-made, a cutout. Some hologram that beams in the same every day. Brow is furrowed, eyes are watchful. The man is a stone wall, a brickface that shows no vulnerability. Long fingers cross and their tops, coming together in a thinking pose. The two pointers rest on that middle space between upper lip and nose. This man does not get excited about fresh bagels or concert tickets. He has been beaten down by the chrome, non-rusted machinery of society. He’s becoming a walking cube of a man. And he intends on staying that way. That is, until he finds a person to breathe life back into his heart. Company budget spent on Swingline staplers. Swingline staplers that maybe will jam constantly. No one thinks of trying to fix it; They’ll just throw it out and buy another one. Free shipping. The working class too muted to get a complaint to ricochet throughout the news cycle. Oceans grow and swell and then come back to a state of equilibrium. Order, command, a trifecta of responsibilities. A story once it’s over. “You’re the boss”. This ruling king in person or thing or feeling that towers over and dictates the laws of how we are and live our life, I suppose. Dancing around the issue. Never wanting to be straightforward. Molotov mildness – A salsa served with chips and dance best orchestrated under blue floodlights in a moody restaurant with a dance floor that is too small for its occupancy. I’m sick of the pharmaceutical commercials. I doubt them immediately. No trust. But the names of the drugs get stuck in my head. I’m constantly trying to flush them out; Drown and dilute them so I may absorb other, more important names and facts and feelings. Data mining my own brain. Pokemon tetris.

Author: Roe

she/her. Songwriter & Trek Punk Soul™.

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