workplace haikus

out of exceptional boredom and a slight paranoia of losing our identities, my fellow tellers and i wrote some haikus at our units. Though it originally took much encouragement, it has now become a commonplace, therapeutic hobby among those of us who fear the bank is strangling us of our souls. so here are a few:

1::
choose a random shirt
preparation for ten hours
best part of my day.

2::
tracing my quarters
waterglass wrapped (paper towel)
My job's killing me.

3::
like the potted plant
in the lobby, im stagnant
withering and bored.

4::
it's all down from here
perfectly gorgeous at G
i'm sad like my shoes.

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and, i felt compelled to write a bit of prose.
just to keep myself from going crazy from boredom.
...although "death by boredom" is pretty poetic in and of itself.

1::
deep, rich green tea steeping beside my still, posed body, steam giving off warmth and vibrance and vitality... the deep amber voice of distant mountains and meditation and movement, brewing increasingly rich, its stealthy value unperceived in this austere bank world. only i treasure the mug, close against my palm as a salvation against the onslought of superficiality, a quiet reminder of what is real and timeless. I curve my fingers gently around the hot ceramic, steeping my own vitality in the tea's. my hot green tea is as old as time but fragile to the sterility of a dull finance institution, subdued gradually by the overbearing grayness of this corporate world, suffering slowly on a cold counter, enduring cold smiles and facades. despite its ageless virtue in so many cultures, it cannot last in this one. and so the tea loses its richness and warmth, becomes cold and bland as it sacrifices itself in the face of gray, suffering the same fate that every person does when they enter a world so austere and so far from what is real.

2::
people are ridiculously preoccupied with mundanity and petty concerns, and have lost sight of anything deeper than superficiality. I'm so tired of people complaining about the quality and condition of their ten-dollar bills. As though the prettier one has more value than the alternative. As though they don't both have the same intrinsic value of exactly ten dollars. As though, if ripped in half, they wouldn't both be reduced to cloth-paper and nothing more. As though people don't realize that the value of the ten dollar bill isn't in the bill itself but what it's spent on - that it's worth absolutely nothing until used to pay for two venti-triple-shot-macchiato's at Starbucks.
and, as though the only important thing going on in their lives is the condition of the money they intend to tote around with them, like weapons with which to meet the materialism of this world.