Five O’clock Shadow

I was almost there

Body weight resting on the palms of my hands.

Propped up and ready to flee.

The clock moved like molasses down moss covered bark

and I don't know why I was anxious,

this happens every day.

I was fed up.

Filled with Indian cuisine that had settled and expanded.

Never quite got over that cold that's been hanging around for more than a month now.

I should charge it rent.

The work piled up because I let it.

And then I did some and regretted it.

I'm getting nowhere, these people are assholes, this shirt collar itches my neck and I hate wearing socks.

At least they don't say anything about the hair on my face. They look at it, and sneer and hint that it might be smart to shave it off, but honestly

it's the only thing keeping me sane.

Each new follicle that opens wide and pours out brown hair, that's red in the sun, liberates me from the constraints of this place.

My mustache says, "fuck you", my cheeks say, "fuck you", my chin says, "fuck you"

and my neck just says, "I quit."

The work just kept on piling up and I don't know why I care.

Why do I feel guilty about not attending to this meaningless mass of pleadings in which one rich person

sues another rich person

over some dead rich person's money.

Nothing wrong with being rich, congratulations.

You made it.  

There's something wrong with being a snake.

In the garden or under the house or down some perverts pants,

The snake is always evil.

I can feel scales starting to consume me and I'm trying to shed them, but it's just not the right time of year.

And so I'll sit here,

Constricted. 

It was another bad day. Suffocating.

I wanted to quit.

I spend too much time feeling this way.

I went home and watched pixilated punk rock videos on the computer.