Resignation Papers

Aristotle is dead. And so is Plato and his friends. No man even went to war to fire a thousand bullets and come home to write a million more to speak about it. I broke it off with my manager and said, I’m leaving the job. That also meant putting my ass on the line, giving up the on-the-whim sushi and the blow cash. It’s all quiet on the western front, after all. Now the Verdun needs a Somme. That also meant no midnight burgers after smoking grass. I thought I was okay after a couple of weeks of normalcy but then the boat just demands to be rocked. Signing the resignation papers she said, is it the hours? Is it the pay? All the sages are bones face down in the books. The monks hole up at the peaks in Kathmandu counting the rest of their beads. I told her I just needed my balls back. The black kitten that hung around for a weekend is gone.


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