Pot Overflowing, Silver Lining

Turn the music up, turn up the music. Calm slowdiving music, raucous music, whatever it takes to drown foul fish. It’s the final resolve here in this gritty sterile box, the office in the hospital full of complaint and drivel. They complain and complain outside my office. The parking dilemma, the phones. It sucks ok; move on. Semi-colon warranted in a dim flashlight.

In the morning I muscle the effort to be social. I open my door. By afternoon I’m driven shut, thick pencils crammed into my ears, post-its over my eyes to block out potential infection. God bless the maintenance man who sings all day for the same purpose. I’m going to steal coffee, I heard one say. Do you know the price of a stolen post-it? I thought. Nihil, nihil. Don’t even talk about it.

Allergens pollute the carpet and ceiling tiles. A proven fact. Incident reports fill a whole cabinet—headaches. Paperwork is the stone-tablet word, you know. Biblical. Of course, I’m told proven facts all will one day be proven differently. A proven fact. Last week I was Wayne Coyne. Today I am Stephin Merritt deep in voice and wit. Thank god. Let’s pretend we’re bunny rabbits. It’s useless to struggle in a cave.

Or, I’m damn busy, gothically archied. This is my attempt at flight. Along with spring flowers, personal, social, and work bulbs have risen abundantly. Expansive field of stimulating poppies (not the narcotic kind of document or lore). Again today the good doctor gave me the greatest compliment. He said, What would I do without you?