Roz's profile

You dive on to the call center floor and find you are astream an ocean of cells, of flesh, of morbid obesity barely contained by frames blown like too worn tyres, bowing out in shapes obscene and unnatural. Is it an occupational hazard? Is it problems tangential that the position exacerbates (crazy follows the seasons)? Is it a class issue? Is it a "thyroid problem"? Is it that this company is the only game in town for the marginal? Float the empirical studies! You want some hard data, as thi...

Pops lives in a retirement community, like many a community formed in Florida since the 70's, though this one's population is of a mid-sized city's number. And thousands more flock there every year. "Upper Income" within the gates, their poorer cousins without; pretty insular. And one can't begrudge them, really. They survived the Depression, WWII, the rise of the Corporation Man and his (and thus their) relative subsequent demise...yea, even their Boomer-ed progeny. (Who by the way, may visi...

Little pricks leave little cuts Festering straight to the bone - Makes for easier breaking Cross an altar built to your ego. Doesn't matter really You do what you want to do; You don't have to tell me Things ain't what they used to be. Little pricks from long knives Slung out of stainless eyes Find Achilles holding A subtler point missed completely. Refrain Little pricks leave little slits Salt pours over open wounds - A seasons sweetness turned bitter A certain sourness in the sinews. Refrai...

I don't want to talk about it now I don't want to talk - not ever - not anymore Silence is golden if a little hollow It deafens the senses But if you listen hard You can hear the echo Across space and time and so and on to me Calling calling Calling out to me Calling calling The calls tell me I'm too weak Don't answer I don't want to think about it now I don't want to think - not ever - not anymore Wishes are horses built to bare poor beggars Shades of meaning so deceiving And if you listen h...

I was thinking of Polonius and the words William penned for his tongue: to wit "To thine own self be true..." Bill penned a prat who sacrificed his own on THAT altar, 'eh? And eventually, himself. There's a play by Miller, "Clara," by name, of how the vanities of the father may be visited on their sons and daughters: with no mean intent - it seems they speak what they don't really think - playing to a house yet unformed. The children can't discern whether it's a "You wish," or a "You are," He...