Solid

a FreshLaundry/Broken Prose Production
by Brooke Colquhoun

“Eight to twelve billion years after the inception of the universe, a thirty year old male Secretary working for Raisin Hell! (world’s sole supplier of artificially sweetened raisin substitutes) discovers his diametric opposition to that of his corporate host.

‘The Secretaries’ Manifesto’ is born, and the spark of revolution ignites.”

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XVI. PAGODA

Erin walks hurriedly
Through throngs and cubes,
Potted plants,
And stacked boxes.

Copious liters of
Coffee flow through
His veins and fire his
Neurons beyond
Normal human performance.

He walks with
Pinpoint accuracy and
Steely determination
Like the liquid-metal robot
In Terminator 2.
He is a machine.

His conscious awareness
Extends beyond himself
And throughout the building
To all points of his near future.
He is aware of every muscle,
Every multitasking subconscious action
Is brought to the forefront,
Every dodge and weave through the
Obstacle-ridden cube maze.

His neurons fire at
Twice the rate of a normal human’s.

To him,
Time is a languid soup.
To others,
He is moving like a
Bat out of Marketing.

His thoughts so lightning fast
He can recite his motions
Like oft rehearsed steps in Tai Chi.

Around the tech support nerd
With tortoise rimmed glasses
And glue-pasted bangs,
Duck under the low hanging fern,
Move left,
Right foot slide out,
Increase thrust and turn 20 degrees,
Walk briskly, almost sideways
To slip unnoticed
Between two executives lost in conversation,
Avoid eye contact with Janet in finance,
Step up onto the sky bridge to reach Building Three,
Squint hard at the window’s glare,
Path ahead is clear;
Accelerate.

A man on a mission;
“In the zone”
As the muscle-bound, ball-chasing,
Human-Labradors say.
Spine straight,
Head Level.
(Not the bobbing
Loping gate of
Burros lured by
Carrots,
Vegetable trays,
And bi-weekly paychecks.)

The coffee in his cup is
His horizon indicator;
Not a drop over the rim,
And he, the traffic controller,
With everything on radar.