Each Saturday evening when I crawl into work
I glance at the sign in the lobby
Outwardly friendly, casually demonic
The Cape Horn Furnace Company
Warming Souls From the End of the World
I used the Boiler City bars for my heat
Weekend job for some extra coin
Taxman wants my beer money
Ex Wife wants the dog
And my ten year old car
Security guard
Babysitter of phantoms
I hear strange noises
See things that aren’t right
Years ago I traded in my crucifix
For an 18 ounce flask
Just enough to dull the blade on
the butcher knife that is life
Electronic babbling twangs from speakers
on my ancient, dented computer terminal
The Night Operators rule my weekends
Unseen
Brutal and heartless
Reminds me of the DMV
You have veered too close to the executive wing
The ground of the Platinum Suits is sacred
We would not want to eradicate you
From our company database
Good, stupid employees are hard to find
Except to take a drink
Drunks keeps their mouths shut
I take a swig from the flask
An intrepid conquistador
As I make my rounds, I pass a deserted desk
Thinking of Patagonia
I love her from a world away
The glasses that protect her blazing, emerald eyes
And the crooked teeth in her mischievous smile
I can drop the twenty pounds
but not the twenty years
And Company Policies state
No fraternizing between coworkers
Something scurries in the ducts above the ceiling
I count at least eight legs, hear claws for feet
An arachnid poltergeist from the Land of Fire
Defiant
Desperate
I open the door to the executive wing
The Land of the Platinum Suits
Barren
A craggy atoll in the South Atlantic
A sepulcher for the Industrial Revolution
There is something standing in front of a window
My ex wife
A frozen corpse
Her mouth twisted in a death smile
mummified
like the refurbished mannequins on the television news
gore on her expensive dress
two hundred dollar haircut burned away
in her cold hand
I notice a leash
I recognize it at once
My drunk’s brain works during tragedies
I have nothing left
Voices from behind me
Not of this earth
We have done you a favor
and given you a warning
Our black magic processors
mainframes conjured from unspeakable dimensions
omnipresent, omnipotent
unholy beings keep unholy hours
We have a job for you
They chant, monks of an inhuman god
There is a raise in pay
If you decline
No need to worry about
Government Assistance
And the company can pay
for the plot in Potter’s Field
ANGER AT THE END OF THE WORLD 
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