Posts Tagged Day Job
Riffed Out of Easy
Listening to loud Middle
Class Rut, wishing I
could run away to
their fields of play.
Some things are simple,
blare with clarity,
and they’re impossible.
The Good Days Attack Me Also
Rarely, there is a day
with razor clarity, all the
edges, sharp, no fuzziness on the
round spiders, when the sun
creates millions more colors
than god originated, where
streets are empty but not
unfriendly, warm like blankets,
when architecture pops at me,
telling me man could not make
those buildings without god,
and while two days ago, the
sun’s fall angle burnt depression
on to my fingernails, today,
the angle is close to
perfect, where there is no
high noon, and I look
out from within my catacombs,
high above the gray, pock-marked
street, and all of me but some frail
string of spirit wants to
jump, knowing it is only with that
clarity in how it will end quickly.
.
I Want a Robot (3)
to sit amongst the tans,
the creamy, sandy blurs
that don’t muffle, but seem
to punctuate the sounds of
gossip, soap-operatic gifs,
and cackles that reopen all my
wounds, to sit there,
punching the numeric
keys and alpha, as needed,
to be a steel case, undisturbed
by the chaos of death wearing
down the cubicled, doing my
job, so that I might wander
in a normally-hopeless search
for my life, for my reason.
.
I Want a Robot (1)
to go out to the bridge,
break down, cry terrifically,
become breathless, unable
to speak of the terrors, but
demonstrate them with the full
jacket of emotions, take all of
my despair so I may sit
here professionally, with no
theatrics, no tears, no feelings,
and take the attacks of my boss
and the volatile piles of shame
from the bad dog, the boss’s boss.
.
(My thanks to Erik, who has kindled a beautiful soul and shares some of it here, where the linked post and others spark the good kind of reflection in me as well as good discussions with Erik, for inspiring this series, which could go on forever, if I do.)
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Where is the Vision?
I flatter myself,
my persistent efficiency
in the drudgery, and the ease
of accomplishment
make my other missions
silly, inane and useless.
No one will tell me
I’m any good, whether it
is the drudgery or some
of my art, and if they
did, they would be lying
to me.
Wanderings with the Hard Core
I wonder at why I should feel
so much pain, the purest emotional
pain, knowing nothing is personal,
my emotions override, and seem
to insist that all of the people
treat me gently, stop these personal
bombs, intentional or not, treat
me gently, I plead, blind for tears
that I’ve learned I must control
but have never controlled, learning
that regardless of personal shame
flowing from these outer indicators
of the insanity of a hopeless being,
they will despise me for my weakness,
and I wonder why on some occasions
I find gentle people who treat others
kindly, but these do not stay in my
life, for god seems to laugh at me
when god treats me to all of the tough
ones as I sit here terminally beaten, gone.
This poem is cheesy but it is the truth.
I wonder at why I am so damned cheesy,
but I remember it all comes from this
broken human structure I’m bound by.
My eyes are tired. They hurt.
.
Air Conditioning, Granite, and Shoddy Walls
When I think of missions,
I’ve failed them all,
but here I am today; can I
do something for the good?
The music plods, and when music
plods, it’s always a funeral march.
I have that fear that pinches
heart and lungs, tells me to grasp.
The egos scattered through my history
frown at me with intricate geometric
shapes that mimic the smallness
of my mind, that howl and dismiss my soul.
Dark Day in Bright Cafeteria
My music cannot overcome
the diseased cacophony
of a shaky cafeteria, and today,
the sun is more grand,
more yellow on the milky granite.
The Chairs in the Windows of the Tall Hotel
Sometimes, the chairs are all
in the same place.
Not always.
When they are,
I become disturbed,
feeling all of the people gone.
The hotel windows become
the universe, and I feel
lonely, frightened of the day.
Today, none of the chairs
were in place, and the chaos
stabbed at my body.
The puzzlement hung on my
shirt sleeves.
I Am the Trash Man
The litigiousness of society rips at me, but I’m likely to blow off the residing anger, say a cuss word like fuck and move on. When it was finally my turn, my day in court finished with a tremendous victory for me and my sleazy lawyer.
Later, after all of the media bullshit, when all of the people started detesting me, the anger erupted inside me, refusing to dissipate, so here I write my cultural defense, having crushed the competition in the courtroom.
When I did the people’s taxes, I had these spirited periods of time like being in a jet when I would punch in these crazy numbers, but it was always in the people’s favor. My customers loved me except if they happened to be audited. My audits seemed to get worse and worse, and the partners always blamed me instead of understanding that I was only trying to make things good for our customer.
I went out in a storm of blurry shouting when three of the partners sat me down in Fred’s office and fired me without letting me defend myself. I was still drunk from the night before, so I had yet to hit the sauce I kept in my desk drawer. I felt put together, Read the rest of this entry »
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