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This writing was accepted for publication in the 84 page perfect-bound issue... Down in the Dirt magazine (v107) (the May 2012 Issue) You can also order this 5.5" x 8.5" issue as an ISSN# paperback book:

Order this writing in the book Purpose (a Down in the Dirt collection book)		get the 230 page May - July/Aug. 2012 Down in the Dirt magazine issue collection 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

Working at Harris Teeter

Travis Green

I used to work at Harris Teeter, stocking
shelves and helping customers, handling
everyday exhausted questions like
“Do you know where the lemons are located?”
or “Do you know if there is a gas station close by?”
And to add on to confusion were rebellious,
rampant kids running wild like leeches,
like Betty Crocker had stormed in time
towards the present. My brain was fried,
slowly sinking beneath surfaces,
customers questions extinguished from my ears.
I must say that I did like serving subs, the smooth,
moist ham between the Monterey Cheddar Bread,
covered in lettuce, onions, tomatoes, tipping it off
with mayo on the side as a last fancy, customers
mind-blown, screaming hands snatching here and there.
I drifted, nightly duties were swinging me from
side to side, between washing dirty dishes and
mopping filthy floors, I felt like I was close
to city slums. And when I thought my job was done,
there was polishing and polishing glasses like
I was some housemaid trapped in the 60’s. Truth is, I was
a jeweled majestic mountain, channeling language
in different dimensions, far from the existence
of their uncolored world. I meddled in pudding,
not the milky cream that made music with
your tongue, but the hypnotizing, photographic
palettes reverberating towards infinity, oil
slicked portraits in sync with my destiny;
thin, brittle brushes gushing with drops
of paint were the windows to my soul
I knew this was the flashing green light,
blinking in my eyes, dripping its liquid ink
down the edges of my skin. But for now
I’d be bottled down, drowned
by the familiar expectations surrounding
me every day. And not to mention,
some nights when inventory was done,
checking and checking, then
misplacing and checking items
was breathless, heavy grunts after
grunts floating in the air,
longing for the hours to accelerate forward.
I was boundless, the sun was dying
down, nothing left in those moments,
except the unbound sunset in the distance.

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