by: m. gantee
I write to him. I write to him on the professional website for professionals because I want him to know just how very professional I am.
I mean I want him to know just how professional I am.
Not how very professional I am. Just how professional I am.
Too late. I’ve already hit “Send.”
I am professional.
I will improve. And next time, I will do it right.
My father never retired. The corporation just let him go. Sloughed him like dead skin. The corporation itself is moldering skin. Continually molting. Flesh. Corporation. Incoporated. Corporeal. Dying flesh. Soft to the touch. Smelling of fermented biologics. Wormfood.
When I write to this gentleman, I want him to know that I don’t see the dying flesh. I see the possibility. The path to the future. The ascendent dream.
The shutters on this house hang askew, as if the windows are the eyes and the shutters are their flesh and age is slouching in gravity-hungry angles. Gravity slouches deep into the existence of this body itself.
I will go out tomorrow when the sun is still young, carefully remove the shutters, one at a time. One at a time, I will take each one down, plane new wood to replace the pieces that are rotten, paint them a fresh and new color, and fit them into place with screws and brass hinges that will shines even through the heartache of the elements.
Tomorrow, when the sun is young, I will feel that new heat on my own tired flesh.
But tonight, I need to write to five more gentlemen to tell them how very professional I am. How the dream is ascendent and how, as a team, we can achieve things that my own tired flesh could not do on its own.
These gentlemen hold the keys to the future. They are visionaries. And by visionaries, I mean that they have large bank accounts and so they know how to run very expensive lemonade stands.
And, in the heat of the morning sun, we will need to begin making lemonade for all of the bodies that will come to pass.
All of the bodies that will come to pass.
All of the bodies.
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