The mole from the ministry

TBH, I’m clueless how this whole internet ecosystem works. Maybe it was coincidence but somebody commented on a poem from like seven years ago. It wasn’t until a week or so ago that I’d touched that site since 2017 (most of the poetry I’ve posted here is from that period), having been sucked into the nightly composition of writing and revision. I was writing at a level I didn’t want to share on that site.

Whatever—wherever comments come from, I’m appreciative. Stats tell me I’m getting 150 hits a day but it’s impossible to tell if those are just bots or actual readers. If it’s readers, please drop a comment, “You suck,” or whatever. If it’s bots, fuck off please.

To Shari’s credit, I was allowed to blossom at her place, writing copiously and experimenting in her awesome kitchen. Having come in kitchens (but only from the front end), I watched and learned while standing at the line between cooks and servers. Shari’s gear gave me all the legs I needed to make restaurant-quality food for her and her professor friends.

That ended when she found hot texts between N and me (the toxic yo-yo of N and me will eventually be addressed), my phone left open in an apparent act of self-sabotage. Unlike N, however, Shari acknowledged that I’d been a value to her household and funded my landing. 

It was big complex in an awful neighborhood run by an unethical and larcenous management company. You know, standard poor person’s dilemma. If I wasn’t dealing with cockroaches scurrying through my cabinets and bathtub, it was some idiot’s subwoofer shaking the floor or a couple screaming at each other out on their balcony at 3:30 in the morning.

Upside was that it was on a bus route to the light rail station. Usually, I’d just make the ten minute walk to the station but, running behind, I’d hop on the bus. My month-long pass got me everywhere on the Metro Line. I’m still at the job where the light rail took me. From my destination stop, it was a five-minute walk to my job. Five-minute walk to the station, ten minutes from the station to my apartment’s front door.

After a few dozen times of N coming over for, y’know, I also cut her a key so she could just chill at my place when I was out. She was working for the state just a few blocks away and found my place somewhere she’d could decompress. My open tray of weed probably didn’t hurt.

I moved into that place in May. By October, she had me helping her paint her house and made room for me in her bed. It was a perfect setup—Lilly had a job just six blocks from my apartment.

And the fun began.