Art in the Workplace
I.
Buddhas speak our words for us. I trust my liver
to bottles of nettle
better off in the hands of doctors
tucking myself inside my name
the thousands of people exactly like me.
Arteries cast from this workaday body
my organs amble around my room
at night. They don’t know the chilly light
in the window comes from the mirrored moon.
They jump in circles and fall asleep
before returning numbly home.
I took a vacation to one of their shrines.
A muscly purple and yellow god
of arms entwined enshrined in the center.
I cut it to pieces with a chainsaw.
Enraged, my organs tied me up
and left me alone to be sacrificed.
I tried to escape but the door was locked.
Back in the sanctum, the god was reborn
and this time he looked like a hammerhead shark
fashioned from purple and yellow Play Doh.
I know I should have trusted my body.
On a torn out sheet, I write in thick marker:
“It’s dangerous to drink before sleeping!” HELP!!
II.
How cool would it be to pour scalding coffee on someone at work and escape on my bike?
On a cool summer night, I would cruise down New Lagoon Prefectural Road, #47, completely empty. The yellow stars twinkle harmoniously above me. The roads were never made for this hour, but the Prefecture pays to keep the lights on. This bike was made just for me to buy it. Parts manufactured in Southeast Asia, in disparate countries, mapped out on blueprints of company subsidiaries, put together on clocked in time. I was made to buy it by injected ads, my favorite film about stars above me, about finally knowing when to say I’ve had enough, stand up for myself, and enjoy my life, so I gave in and bought the bike.
III.
infinity
push on the pedal for speed—
endlessly drifting
New Lagoon Prefecture
Zachary Eller's work has appeared in Cha and is upcoming in Waxing & Waning. He lives in Jersey City, New Jersey.