When I think about my relationship with work
I’m reminded of all those times I couldn’t believe
how bad things had gotten in the workplace,
to the point where even the most valued workers
were being pushed out to the end of their patience
and made to dive into a shark-infested future
with only hunger on its mind, and all in an effort
to simply lighten the load on those running the ship,
while producing treasures that never felt good enough.
Later, having miraculously landed on a deserted island
of underemployment, where opportunity fell
on my head and gave me mental diarrhea each time
I swallowed too much of it, I did what I needed to do
in order to survive.
I kept myself hydrated, performed a few regular
exercises to keep my joints oiled, and even meditated
on my salty tears when most days after work I felt so
deeply underrepresented I begged for a sudden and
untimely death to give me all its attention, to slither up
and fatally bite me in my sleep through my ramshackle
tent of hope I’d made from whatever shit washed up.
Now, I’m just as lost as I ever was, and the island of
displacement still rumbles underneath me like a reason
to blow, only now the views from the shore where my
failures erupted out of what kindness I could defiantly
unbury, walk sideways, snapping their claws day and night
back into the mouth of an unfeeling universe I can’t seem
to change the gravity of, but while looking sunnier
than they used to,
the blue water bluer, the scavenger birds friendlier than
before, or at least it seems that way when they land close
as if to pull up a chair and watch a show, but are really
just waiting for me to you know damn well what.