It was just another photo on the white board. Another form with the
numbered exposition of requisite determination. Some sort of
blameless bid for gentrification, as it was briefed. A picture of
bongos with berets and tar stained lips migrating across spit stained
reeds in brass and copper. They would have never planted that Field
of Reeds themselves. It was all too much grunt work. Each and every
blank crying out for an answer that was only destined for redaction,
and yet the assignments would still be listed in numbers and letters
first. As always, the passage of force exerted seemed to be the issue
at hand. "Right there at your fingertips", they said.
So it was, with the taste of this score on the tongue. They could
score a corner office in the high rise with a bubbling spoon and a
fast jab to pastry pies in the sky. But on the ground, the chips fell
on another line. They were counted after each throw, each inquiry.
There wasn't any time for that kind of baby face bullshit. Each
report came spilling through the backs of pages in wet ink. It might
have been a matter of opinion, but even the telegraph notes bore it
out: too many colleagues called into question, too many insects still
on the route. "That's why you get this license", they said.
At least they paid the phone bill. They damn well better, when the
job stack builds more than a little black book filled with restless
dakinis. It was not just an adventure, not just another sleepless
night. Those fine specimens were tired of just looking. They had
spun so many jingling turns around the altar, it was time for action.
They wanted to taste the blood and sweat and let that erupting juice
fill every yearning crevice. Claws splitting flesh in a wild lust for
expansion. The demand was shared around and passed like a joint,
wicked contact highs before the inevitable and directly full-on
inebriation. "Left to your own devices", they said.
