from: a day in the life of p., subpress, 2002


one more step.......


outside a concrete compound with its neon location adornments, p. took a deep breath, smoked five cigarettes, slipped on four different i.d.s and produced a set of keys for secure areas. a set of keys that meant prestige. a set of keys that hung out of the right front pocket. when something would walk, the keys would rattle which gave whatever a relative perspective. a ground. a noise that related directly to movement though space.

walking through the two locked doors and registering at the mandatory sign-in sheet to prove presence, sometimes would be hit with an onslaught of subtle demands for updates and affair changes.

youre late . . . its 11:40 . . . where have you been?

the sisterbrother kingqueens are back, but now both have beards!!

the contingency wants a meeting. they want to know why they only get 10% of the services, when they are 15% of the population!!

mary john in bed 225 . . . slashed the right wrist of too-much-right-now-thank-you in bed 332, mistaking it for mary johns own wrist and when I asked why, mary john responded that it was something to do with discomfort and paint fumes. also, there are only three beds left! do we put the rest in the bathrooms with cots and extra valuim or give them a voucher for a rent-a-map to albuquerque?

from somewhere else, in a direction that was not -

the budget has to be done - it has to look real on paper. how it ends up is of no concern.

and from the same direction but a different voice, though it could be the same person -

theres an outbreak of scurvy in the most fit dorm and theres lice in the near to earthen section.

p. grabbed the memos and notes from a random passerby, lists of new forms and policy changes that had changed in the latest sessions of the department of subtle changes. whatever continued to walk through an aroma of the unbathed and too much deodorant to a cubicle with a lock and dead palm, slammed the door and ducked down as the computer automatically turned on. something stared at the calendar trying to figure out what it meant, then looked at the phone and could tell by the number of flashes there were 47 messages. p. tried to count the flashes over and over:

one, two, three, four, five, six, seven - no wait . . . was that six or seven.

whatever would keep trying until the only option was to download them all into a distant memory. both knew one day there would be over ten thousand saved messages and the system would crash. sometimes had cataloged all the saved messages, some of the messages p. had submitted just to get a daily quota in.

in the coherent range whatever started to think about the toilet that seemed to back up every time whatever would vomit, which seemed similar to the streets and the mass transit devices, which were similar to the phones whose circuits were always incapacitated, similar to p.s stomach after 15 cups of coffee. there seemed to be a measurable coexistent process in all these systems, a continual seeking of another solution other than the designated activities.
. . .