Little Piggies

She started by counting her toes hoping that toes, more than fingers, would ground her - unless she chose to walk on her hands, which was not entirely out of the question for these were peculiar times calling for peculiar modes of transporting oneself, especially to and from work, which had been more stressful than usual this last week – so much so that she had found herself counting her toes for grounding.

She reached ten and thought that normal enough in one’s toes, but she had to be sure, so she counted again, though not before consulting an encyclopedia – several encyclopedias, in fact, for, much to her chagrin, she did not find toes in the “t” volume or piggies under “p,” but finally found the proper number of toes under “a” for anatomy.

Again she counted ten and, though she had hoped this would ground her – in many ways besides the standing on of said toes: give her bearings in life, reaffirm her ability to compute and comprehend complex numbers, prove once and for all that birth defects sometimes happen thirty years after the fact – but it did not, in fact, ground her at all for still she was flighty and dodgy and terrible at math and rife, though still rife with birth defects newly formed some thirty years after the fact (or twenty-eight to those who knew no better).

Then it was that she began to dig and, having no yard, this meant digging straight into the floor, which brought forth choices – she had found choices more and more daunting and tonight was the night to approach the ever boding level of facile when it came to choices, especially those that would ground her – choices of where to begin this digging adventure: bathroom or living room, hardwood or linoleum, shovel or spoon, choices.

Of the three major choices, she opted for the latter, the former, and, lacking a shovel and money to buy said shovel and the propensity to visit such places that carried said shovels, the latter, and within minutes was digging down into faux wood in the desperate hope that somewhere beneath her feet, this floor, the foundation, the sewer lines, and the direct route to China, she would find the true secret to grounding herself.

If nothing else, she would get a good workout from this, tone her triceps, build up hunger, thus alleviating the guilt of eating, which had plagued her for some time now, whether exercising or not, though she found that one thinks very little of eating while digging – a bit of a surprise considering the presence of the spoon, her favorite utensil for eating.

She dug and dig and digged and digged and could not decide which fit properly into good grammar, but hoped that once she had grounded herself (or perhaps grund herself) she would epitomize proper speech, good sleeping habits, excellent nutrition, and delightful conversation at parties – this last hope formed despite her previous twenty-two party conversations ending with dropped food, stained blouses, profuse apologies, and quotations from great pop hits of the 1970s.

There on the newly damaged floor, spoon in hand, ten toes across two feet, she fell asleep and dreamed of digging in all forms: machines, dogs, grave-makers, groove-shakers, giant spoons, and even the occasional shovel, though even in dreaming these confused her for they appeared quite out of context – in the question “where exactly do shovels come from?” both of her consciouses, waking and sub, allied.

She awoke feeling thirsty, hungry, too, confused a bit, though less than any of these, grounded. The digging had done nothing but reduce her security deposit. She had not reached China, she still had ten toes, and life felt flighty, especially life lived in her body. She washed the spoon, put it back into the drawer, and sat in her bed. She began counting her toes again, thinking maybe one had run off in the night and digged its way to China.

Division

The Union failed today when today the Union divided into two Unions – sub-Unions, they are now called, though half-Union and Union Junior were both bandied about for some time.

Sub-Union A fought a great deal for its title, deeming its former brethren, now foe, Sub-Union B. Sub-Union B would not stand as a secondary, hence lesser, Sub-Union and brought forth the proposition that they both be called Sub-Union A.

Sub-Union A opposed the proposition on the grounds that letters, composed primarily of spiteful, bitter words, between the two Sub-Unions would become confusing and unclear were they both addressed and signed by the same Sub-Union, that of Sub-Union A.

Sub-Union A, formerly Sub-Union B, then proposed that they be called Sub-Union A₁ and the other bastards call themselves Sub-Union A₂. This aroused more harsh words, debate, and the occasional tossed sausage to the eye.

Several hours later, the floor littered with sausages, it was discovered that a row over policy had caused a split in Sub-Union A₁, thus forming Sub-Union A_1A and Sub-Union A_1B.

Shortly thereafter, internal dissension arose in Sub-Union A_1B over the designation of the letter ‘B’ and whether it was lesser than ‘A’ or not. Further division of the Sub-Union was threatened until it was discovered that Sub-Union A_1B was comprised of one man, Mr. Artemis Dunday.

By day’s end, compromise had not been reached, angry words spouted continuously as the participants made their way to their cars, and several sausages were still reported missing.

Tomorrow’s agenda for the Sub-Unions includes possible further division of all Sub-Unions, a lengthy slide show, and a lunch of pulled pork. The day will conclude with a discussion of what it is exactly that the Union represents, currently designated TBA.

Mad Man of the Special Cookie, Part I

Rather than pressing on about the cookies, she surrendered to the cake. Frosting rarely appeased her, but in this climate poor of sugar, she knew that any sweet was good sweet, even when the sweet lacked the sophistication she had previously encountered in those cookies. ‘What genius baked them?’ she wondered aloud, pink-shrouded, yellow morsels expelling from her mouth. A mad man, she continued in her head, opting for a closed mouth in sight of sweet-loss prevention. Surely not a mad woman, for no woman could understand what a woman needs anywhere near as shrewdly as the mad man of the special cookie. Only a man could hook a lady on a sweet treat and reel her back, hook her and reel her back, and on and on in a fishing metaphor that may have been apt, but only distracted from the need for sweets.

She finished the cake – a lackluster piece, if only by proxy – and yes, THE cake, not HER cake, she made special notice to call it for the duration of their time together – and still craved the cookie. What divine powers in a so minor a treat, she noted in her head, her mouth now gaping wide from want, from need, from utter lack of regard. Her eyes held on the plate of cookies settled comfortably beneath its domed, glass shelter. At the sixth minute of staring, the HR temp walked by and, without hesitation, lifted the glass. With great stealth, he snatched a cookie, replaced the glass, and was gone. The cookies screamed silently at the loss of brethren.

“Oh!” she expelled. What impudence he had. How jealous she was. Did he not appreciate the ethics of the clear glass lid? A trailblazer. Once the lid was lifted, then – and only then – could they take up cookies into hands. If only she subscribed to such blasé lifestyles as that damnable HR temp: moving from job-to-job with no regard for pension; taking cookies from whatever plate, no matter the indication of its covering. He passed and took another.

“Bastard!” she squeaked. We must regard the sanctity of the glass dome, she thought. Otherwise, there will be no cookies left when the dome is lifted. Already the plate looked lonelier, less and less inviting. She knew this to be an illusion, however. So many others around the office saw a plate diminishing in population as a plate diminishing in quality. She knew the opposite to be true. They would scramble for a plate teeming with cow pies for the mere fact that it was teeming. She still saw the plate for cow pies. Perhaps the HR temp was helping her in this regard. The more cookies he took, the less valuable the plate would be to others who had not tasted of said cookies, and the more cookies would be left for her. Perhaps, in a coup of resounding joy, she would be able to take one home. How splendid this Tuesday had become! How wonderfully life could change in the span of several minutes staring at a plate of spectacular cookies beneath a domed, glass lid!

Vapor Cries of the Steam-Powered Man

The steam-powered man with those grand hands that spanned chasms
Found himself alone no chasms to span with those grand hands
He thought to cry did the steam-powered man but the only tears to come
Turned instead to steam and vapor all heat from inside him and made him
Only want to cry more though so futile he thought it eventually
For indeed though no tears would come still the steam-powered man
Had thoughts that overwhelmed him overwrought him overjoyed him
Steam-powered thoughts he thought them when the thoughts came
With little else to show them than the steam that came and powered his name.