At the End of a Perennial Career

His father was tied gray, brown, dirty white among the last bucolic fantasies of business skills, tightly checked morality, and subdued cultural taste during the infancy of capitalistic self-awareness.  A victim of social Darwinism, he strode on worn out shoes of conversation. His cleaver thoughts dragged the body of work as a form of self-expression, of gentle humility, of soft pride, and it stained the heavy steps, the Masonic halls, the leering file cabinets, and the office door of his theosophist boss. He was trailed and haunted by rusty old memories of things he never actually experienced that had turned into blood desires of pain and hope, feverish sting rays of anxiety and interdependence. He knew reality was out there, but he could not describe it. He could only feel it… as his hands shook.