Daily Roach: Mar. 18th

I see her after the news, my eyes fat and red with tears, through a blinding flash of foliage which are twenty and seven years, standing in the present clearing, the sun coming down on her old and mighty face, my grandmother, mother grand, with cancer, and smiling.

Daily Roach: Mar. 16th

Cynicism is settled complacency, the oil field, attempting intelligence, burning.

Daily Roach: Mar. 15th

That growing acreage was a splitting seed, a dying bird, the ascent of worms.

Daily Roach: Mar. 14th

One day the pale white face that inhabits the shadow will meet the broad, golden brow that lives in the sun; a romance will occur, and possibly a great work of fiction, though they'll swear it was just a conversation.

Daily Roach: Mar. 13th

One hour ago, sixty minutes lay waiting by the fire, a neat pile of kindling; now it glows, having burned, scatter-packed cinders, brightening on your breath.

Business Man: 3

I won’t stifle you with the lack thereof’s in this building. That would be a lazy stream of knowledge, a bouquet of grass when here and there amongst the blades are yet to be found dandelions, bursting yellow. My boss is having an affair. No. All the bosses are having affairs. All the bosses are having affairs with each other. And they all think they are isolated Casanovas, Secret Unique’s, sharp packets of forbidden pleasure in thousand dollar business-wear. Little do they know that the degrees of separation connecting all the shapes of their DNA number less than three. Now listen. All of them coagulated into one person, The Boss, a network of sinew and thought idiotic, like Frankenstein, Bankenstein, only more stupid. In love with itself. No wonder they go to the bathroom so often. The mirrors. Especially James, whose glassy eyes must re-reflect an infinity of self-images; i am, I am, I Am, I AM. He thinks he Is because he Has, and we all agree without uttering a word. We advertise accord with smiles and palm sweat and padded laughter. Funny how watches and shoes validate princes. How car and suit proclaim domain, how logo makes us swoon. I shouldn’t bring up Sheep, but cliché coats every fabric of my office, sluices off every wet and shiny discussion, popping sour and curling up tangy at each dropped syllable, a billion worthless pennies.