Wearing the wrong pants for a rainstorm that’s unleashing a horrifying display of freeway ineptitude.
It’s us against the soaking masses of traffic. Fun.
Delirious from anticipating collision while being hidden by dark rain, tucked deep behind speeding shadows and blind spots, the only constant element is the howl of the engine and the blankets of water.
like a fish I sift through puddles and mist
sleek, I persist against the fear in my wrist
hydroplaning lanes in the darkness and rain,
adrift in adrenaline, drowning in bliss.
In the middle of that ungodly busy little bar we stood, you stroking my pinky and giving me a look as if I was crazy to be stricken or smitten by li’l ol’ you.
Last week when you backed into the kitchen and demanded the statement you knew I had for you, in the midst of my frantic madness, in front of half the restaurant staff…all I could muster and grunt was some pedestrian expletive.
After today if you call me out in front of others I will deliver the goods you seek because I’m fairly certain that you want me to instigate your beautiful destruction by announcing our dark tryst. Assured that I’m the one to be the catalyst for your impending pleasure, the one to feed ALL of your senses instead of just the handful, your nonchalance is brazen as is your persuasion in making me do the dirty work to sweep away the filthy mess you know is about to occur.
We spoke briefly earlier but writing it makes it cement.
If and when I’m inside your body I will, without intent, truly ruin you. I will make you feel ways you cannot quite yet imagine and for every statement you utter that brings me down to earth I will trigger a response from your wicked, wily body that will be so villainous you will beg to be tied down as to not writhe out of your own skin. (Your spells have equal measure in torturing me as well.)
You’re all about calling bluffs, and I, love, am the last one you want to do that with, yeah?
Or am I the first one?
The lowest and largely most disregarded position of power in nearly any work arena is the dreaded, ambiguously gray area ruled by middle management.
A middle manager is neatly positioned between a honed, yet equally frustrated supervisor and a listless group of barely competent drones who mill about aimlessly, apparently chewing up resources which cause board meeting bar graphs to twist and buckle under the weight of labor costs. So unproductive these workers are, they require someone to oversee their slacking and hi jinks, a manager to answer to an actual boss while walking around pretending to be the boss.
Laddered just below a tyrant in training and barely above the wretched masses, middle managers walk the endless line of constantly pleading for true upper level support while rarely garnering any real respect from subordinates. No one takes a middle manager seriously because administrators perched on higher ground seldom champion anyone below them, especially if the status quo already meets the needs of the few.
Anyone in middle management who is cognizant of any glimmer of reality realizes the futility and how loveless their position’s purpose can be. They are desperately and silently searching for an alternate avenue to their goal while fitfully biding their time, chomping at a bit that seems bent on choking them to death.