Farthest Aisle

Housed within a beige cubicle, Jay and I alternately enter data into a shared computer. In tandem we push file carts along a grey carpeted maze of legal documents. The depositions, court reports and affidavits that we pass are deadwood testifiers to naked greed. These volumes are lawsuits against C.N.A., the insurers of Owens Corning/Fibreboard, the purveyors of asbestos, soft killer of hard working people, vampire of dedication, effort and breath. Our employer.

Outside, wild rainbow youth swim upstream through

Financial district streets.

They yell: Fight AIDS, Act Up, Fight Back!

Bathed in florescent lights, corporate goons dress in drab. They ring bells instead of calling us by name. They never look us in our faces when assigning duties.

There is no lack of work. Asbestos’ snake-like fibers lacerate their victim’s lungs at alarming rates. People that loved these workers sue. More suits, more files, more jobs.

Outside, wild rainbow youth swim upstream through

Financial district streets.

They call: Fight AIDS, Act Up, Fight Back!

Inside the walls of morbidity, Jay and I take a break . The cocoons that rest in our busy bellies arise as beautiful butterflies. Fluttering wings of day-glow pink, blue and orange light up the lunchroom and descend upon the sheen of linoleum as we speak of art, music and life. We share words of lust that make us shake, and our mouths singe and smoke.

We prance in hot pants through the khakied halls of bad vibes. Back where we won’t be found. We lay down in the farthest aisle, far enough away to make out unmolested for 10 blistering minutes, and faux fuck amongst the dead.