Or, How “writing” yourself into a resume pins you down and wraps you into a neat tied up package.

How to Not Be a Pre-Wrapped Deliverable.

 

It’s that “resume” part of jobbing I wanna elbow the hell aside, punch out then tear past whooping.

I feel myself speed out of the stupor of conformity into the real, whatever it really is.

The thought of that octupussy pandora’s trap makes my skin crawl. That squirmy zombie octopus has a super power possessing shadow side. 

It’s designing dangerous and only alive in the insidious way of all deadly systems are alive.

It’s, it’s not natural.

It’s not actually alive. And it’s not part of the beauty of the ocean. It’s a monster.  

It’s the sweet lost ghosts of distant past I grew out of. Memories. Fantoms meant to predict the future. When they don’t.

It’s the past with it’s claws dug into my future’s neck. It pins down what’s alive and chokes it into zombie hood.

 

Thee looming boredom of repeating the past hurts my soul’s teeth like scraping them slowly all the way down that familiar chalkboard. 

Designing my own restrictions trying to do again what I did well before takes me back to being naughty.

“No go pick me a willow to spank you with.” 

 

You’re seven. 

You are supposed to be choosing the stinging green willow branch to whip red marks onto the backs of your bare legs.

This ends as it begins. Like writing a resume.

 

 I’d rather go put on some stipper shoes.