Crammed computer lab, ticking, clicking, cliquish talking, surrounds focus like flies on the topic of conversation. Barbie dolls broken out of plastic packages singing fuck me jock sub-culture. Imaginary imperialists guarding territory like Scotland vs. the English, ready to attack third-eyed-legs for the slightest glance.
Tuned eyes to the electric-blue screen, wide, white and green, cubicles of stale air, sweat, and perfumed hair, bleached and seared, cracked broken ends on glass pages, a wrestling match between syntax and cliché phrases, inserted run-on, and deleted collages , a cut and paste lifestyle of subordinate clauses.
I stopped going to the computer lab today. The young annoying drunken kid running around making a scene to be seen was just too much; waiting at the printer for a paper is like waiting at the bar in a cluster-fuck of people trying to get a drink. While I type I wait for the disco ball to drop, and a disc jockey to announce, over the p.a., he’s going to spin the top 20 shit list of 2005. While in the meat market, one can’t help but to shop, there are too many tank tops, tube tops, and tight jeans, the consistent tongue clicking of heels, hip swaying, asses with an over exaggerated bounce, pulling my focus away from my work.
I stopped going to the computer lab today. The dangling bling-bling was sore eyes for sight. All the painted faces that just seemed to blend down the neck, like masks of someone they wanted to be, masks like they severed their heads and rolled them around in dirt, wet lips like they kissed a puddle, and forgot to wash their dusty hair. Hands with press on gems, sheen at the tips, clicking on the desk like the worst drum roll ever attempted.
Crammed computer lab, like “The Masque of the Red Death,” hiding from the plague, but its all around me. Abercrombie monsters, identical costumes, and I can’t tell who is with me or against me. I’m surrounded by a sub-culture of disease, corporate capitalism could be wearing off on me like mainstream-media-pop is feeding the plague, like fashion is only a reason to spend money on unnecessary items, like dirty face paint, or worn out jeans, these outrageous idiotic extremes protruded by multi-media mainstream, advertising how I’m supposed to be.
I left the sheep in the pen and I closed the gate behind me.
ABOUT THE PIECE: The Kat Wok is an Asian bar/restaraunt is Ashland, and at night it becomes a dance club. Being in a small town for a few years one becomes familiar to an array of faces. I don't go to this bar often, I could count the times on my right hand, and honestly that is too many. It was just stirring in me to make a correlation between the lab and bar, the same people, same actions, and I wonder if they will ever change.