Mail

In the post comes, and then out it goes. A tide of mediocrity: badly worded questions, adverts for office supplies, request upon request upon request; all that produces nothing. And with it another tide, of melancholy: badly thought conclusions, an advert for otherness, silence upon silence upon silence; all that produces nothing. In the mood comes, and then out it goes.

But I have plans: one day I will write off for mail order fists, and then they will jump like a jack-in-the-box out of the post, punching down the office door, demolishing the pigeon holes, flying through the computer screen, sending the out tray out the window, its mail free to fly away like birds. And then they will carry him, this office man, down a blood-red road made out of roses, and above them he will float. & I, his fist, will be the fist of fists; the centre of all the other fists that fly or thump through the mail.

Now he signs his name, now he stamps a form, now he sends an email. He is the exact centre of nothing, there in his cubicle, except his fist's attention. His fist that just waits, and waits, and waits, for permission to jump out from this box and into everywhere, into anywhere.