yojo

did i say i come from a long line of gravediggers?  each spent its life below the earth covered in worms and the piss of executives, employed by chthonic corp.  the pay was bad and we all died anonymous and poor and young.

my soul is empty and carnal.  in my emptiness i yearn for purity, sainthood, god, infinite deserts, martyrdom, silence.  in my carnality i want happy genitalia writhing on my digits, my open wounds, like hydra … i want desperate grapplings where flesh hangs like laundry on a line.

but because i’m a gravedigger i can be neither saint nor rogue, i cannot fulfill my soul.  instead, i dig words in the world of langwich and live in mediocrity between.

the middle!  there’s too much of it and it’s all the same and everyone wants it.  that i am forced to work in the cemeteries of time to no end and remain forever separate from my desire – this is a good joke, isn’t it?  that’s why we diggers sing.

each day is a new grave.  i wake to the shovel and earth.  i wake to my body waiting to be buried.  i wake to the masses of the middle scurrying to the tunes of their importance or despair.  i dig.  and by evening the masses are high above on endless surfaces and i where i belong, well in the earth, the day’s doom done.

we have no union, no breaks, no benefits, no bonuses, no affirmations.  our pay is any words we’re able to steal and stuff in our pockets and then at night – when is there ever time to sleep? – we lay them on our desolate beds and arrange them according to an ancient lawbook we’ve never read.

i dig a thousand graves and then a thousand more and – yes – i am a grave.