i can’t title this exactly as i want to as it might give too much away and i may pay both a literal and figurative price (meter reader walks the dock and i note the time)

all day long and
well through my nights
there are stories
being told
in my mind. i don’t
have a mind for
stories.

some people take
one job and
they do that
job, a job
for money, they do
that one job for
their whole working life.
some people take
job after job after
job, working for
their whole life.
i read or heard or
was told a story
about how around
40% of people
hate their job.
but some people don’t.

some people have to
touch people
as a part of their job.
they work
with people who’s bodies
and/or minds
do not form
and/or operate
in agreeable and
acceptable ways.
so they go to buildings
and we call these buildings
their home, and
we pay people
a small amount of money
to come in to these buildings
and to say things like,
“hello” and
“good morning”
and to smile and to
touch them all the while.
no, not a hand
shake, and no,
not a sexual touching.
friendly. touch them
like we might touch
our friends. for love,
but not for some kind
of fluid release.

if the heart is said to be
a center of love, or
at least a representation of it,
and the heart’s job, which it does
for not even one bloody red cent,
is to swish blood about the body,
and blood, well,
blood is a fluid,
then maybe any type of
love is also a type
of fluid release.

but this is not
what i meant
to say.
what i intended
to say is that
my mind is not
one for stories.
there are stories
in it all day long and
well through my night.

a story in my mind
might be, “i don’t
like this job”.
a story might be,
“i don’t want to
touch this person”.
sometimes my mind is in story
such as, “these people
around here, they
don’t much like me”.
these stories swish through
my mind all day long
and well though my night,
and the whole time
the heart
is so serious in its
unpaid work, swishing
and slurping blood
all through my body.
and my mind would like
clear order for
all this love, or
all this fluid. or
maybe it is touch
that my mind wants
to organize into a story,
to sit down the children
that i don’t have,
to sit down their children,
who are a little nervous
around me and don’t
much like to touch me,
but still they relent to my asking
and sit down with me,
well into my evening,
and let me tell them stories.
but i don’t have a mind
for stories, and stories
take my mind all day
and well through
all my nights.

most all of us are
a mess. we
spend considerable energy
and effort, we cause
ourselves swishing messes
of stress, trying
to fool ourselves and
everyone else
otherwise. but
this might all be
a story
in my mind, my
mind, not one for
stories.

Published by Zak

an intertidal island in an ocean of impermanence.

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