Logan

Can you believe he is paid for being a squid?

 

Inking a paper ‘till it’s covered in nothing but black gunk.

 

He is very good.

 

Strait, unwavering, horizontal lines,

 

Destroying every I that binds an artist to their work.

 

Erases a shit or a damn like a surgeon,

 

Give him a few though and they’ll come spilling out of his pocket like snowflakes.

 

BUT, he is very good.

 

Should he have his way one could not crack wise without duct tape being slapped on their face;

 

Erasing a few hairs missed in the first place.

 

He is an introvert among extroverts, a loner in a world of expletives.

 

He wades in a river of black ink waiting to be spilled onto the lips of millions.

 

But then he wakes up. 

 

That wasn’t a revelation, in fact it was the best!

 

Tells his wife some fib about a moose flying a jet.

 

She doesn’t understand how he can have a dream like that with a job like this,

 

Tunes her out for a moment of bliss picturing a loud, continuous chime over everything she says.

 

By the time she turns around, she is nowhere to be found.

 

Back to that corporate jungle of yellow tape,

 

Changing the bullet wounds into lollipops;

 

Easier to digest, simpler to pass by

 

Because someone hasn’t died, but passed on,

 

But you’ll never know, no one will because...

 

Dark black lines eliminate him,

 

A classified stamp crucifies him,

 

No one will say goodbye to him!

 

Our man seals the file, places it into the bin;

 

Moves onto another story that no one will ever see again.