A Day in the Life of: Stock Market by Day, Journalist by Night- Human All of the Time

Waking up is purgatory for a person who suffers an inflammation disease.

It causes everything that happens next to strain more vigorous than it has to be.

I tell myself the story every single day.

All I have to do is wake up. And do the dang thing.

What is the thing? It’s really not much.

If all it is to master the art of getting up.

Which I scuffle and brawl to even get past that part,

Monday through Friday.

I work from home half the week and it’s always a carbon-copy of the script.

I write for the local government but most of my day is spent on the stock market.

A pigeon, a night owl—a human.

I tell myself I’ll do better and it’s a run-of-the mill.

A runaway train, but running to the same commonplace.

I race to hit the start key on my HP,

and pop a pod of Sumatra in my over-priced Vertuo machine.

Then spritz my spider tank, so I don’t forget.

I never forget.

Hating that I didn’t workout first,

pray or digest.

I vowed that if I did just one of those things,

the destination would arrive quite different.

At 430pm, I log-off and catch a one-way train back to the land of instant gratification.

The land where I skip the stair master, and deplete all source of motivation.

Instead, I prop my cat on my lap,

rubbing her velvety spine back and forth.

The monotonous itinerary of a day isn’t in what I do, but the thoughts that are sworn.

It’s the carnal humdrum in my head, behind every contemplation at the cross-walk of alternatives.

Musing over the idea that I’m somehow going to morph into a body with the obliques of a rhino.

Or write a best seller that out-shines Cyborgs.

The bar set high, high above the magnetic fields,

where our planet is being invaded by artificial Shakespeare.

That’s our competition.

I miss the old mundane;

where watching the rain plow a tin,

wrote better stories with a Quail feather as a pen.

Now I create with my thumb.

Writing Vocal stories -the highlight of my mundane ‘fun’.

Hoping to be noticed in a Neptune of bots wearing neck-ruffs.

Proving to be seen, sober, AI-clean.

So I return to comfort. A repetitious territory, my queer place to be.

But it’s so much easier for me to blame it on my inflammation disease.

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A DAY IN A LIFE OF STOCK-MARKET BY DAY AND JOURNALIST BY NIGHT