things written during the sit-in interview with Alfred for some store that i don’t even know the name of.
When the man and the woman with the pen in their twisted hands wrote down things about me, taking note, measuring me with their eyes like I was cattle in front of the meat man, I would give anything to evaporate in the moment. Instead, I watched back and spoke eloquently, enunciating every single word as if it is foreign to me. Spoke the language like it was a second language, like my father learned this as a second language.
Those two people that spoke the language of the dead men that ventured across large bodies of water. The language was different now; but over there, it is still the same. I move my lips to form ‘o’ and ‘a’ and I laugh at the jokes though they barely reach the surface. When it’s all over, when the analysis is done, I can walk away and be myself… be in my own way…but then again, i can’t. Because even after the departure, I will prolong the way in which I say o-ccu-pa-tion, in an unnatural way.
We are easily stirred and angered. And, we are still watching by the fences while those that were on the frontier are no longer in line. We wait for our chance to grab that tangible something, to clutch it to our chests like our children or empty-barreled pistols. We are only aware of our places in line when those in front of us are strangers, fiending for the same things that we want to get our hands on. Collectively, we move like the rattle at the end of the snake’s body. Apart, we are still standing still.