Muzzle
If there’s something to be said then i’ll say it to the fella in charge from outside of the tall building. Down but not out like a man with muscular dystrophy; don’t you put no muzzle on me. It’s a matter of timing and it ain’t the time for it says the clock. Let me stack up some internal monologues in the meantime. I tell ya, it’s me and what my encephalon says for many years. It won’t shut the fuck up and I like it that way. You ain’t Nostradamus but you mimic him long enough, there might be a second coming. As long as I don’t say what i’m stirring up in the brain on the spot then everything will be fine. The words need to be refined, sifted for it’s substance and structured for its coherence. I’ve been a mute before and that dialog in my head is all that is ever said. I could give it a go once again but I have stuff to do. No greetings or goodbyes when the thumb is up for everything. Don’t have to write it out when I don’t need to ask for anything, i’ll figure it out. The only way I can physically hear the raw thoughts without spewing them out is by aligning the sound of my nose inhaling or exhaling with the pattern of the wording being arranged and that is something you can’t take away from me with a muzzle. I wasn’t gonna bite, put the one that Bane wears on me i’ll still fight even if the gun barrel now has accuracy. Coasting along, gathering what you can with observation and without staring too long. Stack up series of automated responses all around me and turn it into a brick home. Home of responses with outcomes thought two steps ahead. The only thing said for the day will be served with wit. “Make it make sense for me” I tell the driver of this body, vessel, or carcass. Driving in the dark at home, every shadow your headlights can’t reach has that brain spinning. The camera is still rolling and the cue card holding holder is going slower by the paycheck. Make it home while making it make sense so you don’t hurt nothing with a nose, rhinarium, or a snout. In the metropolis on this two seater seating station, trying to make sense of lots of things. The ducks are fed regardless of what the sign said and that can’t be right. The body and brain belong by the pond but the bread led the beaks out on to the streets. New signs made just for the ducks that cross the road. That bread sure was too good to not risk getting squished for. I’ve been sitting here for too long like Rupert Pupkin in the lobby, the people in the fifth floor looking at me with pitchforks. Swirled in thought, the building would have to crack wind before i’d notice it falling on me. I don’t get why the people in power working in the tallest building has to hunker down at the top floor. Is this a way of putting a muzzle on everyone else below them? If this is supposed to signify being at the top of the company then it’s a bit lackluster. Where do you go from there? It’s a roof after that, sometimes there is a helicopter pad on that roof for people who are better than you. It’s all melancholy and infinite sadness having to look down to get fresh air from the roof top. People from the outside looking up don’t view the top floor as the place to be, they view it like a Mortal Kombat arcade tournament. You work your way to the top then beat the boss. You beat the boss then you get down from there and do it over again at another building that is taller, which makes it more difficult. It’s not more difficult because of the boss, it’s the more people you have to get past to and I think that goes for being the top man of the company on the top floor. Work your way to the top just to have that many stops in the elevator before leaving the building, you’d have to push people’s schedules back just to leave before them. Most of these people have names that you don’t know just like the people on the outside of the building. This is all just television for people window washing.