Cubicle Insanity

Such simple cloth can choke

like knotted noose–

half-windsor if you please–

atop the seamless folds,

a wet blanket beaten

by the daily in-voice–

if all the world is held within

these three most bitter walls,

slow insanity

beating a briefcase against the wall.

All I taste is Salt

I twist

Like paper on the wind;

The earth batters me

And I dip down, down

Into the crystal nothing—

No sky above,

No earth below—

Pressure building

Strangling the life

From hearth and home—

No warmth

Down below the waves,

My tumult silent

In the swallowing mass

That caresses all the hearing

From my mind.

All I taste

Is salt.