Manager

It's my freedom, isn't it?
It's that I  don't acknowledge you
Or your role as my manager
That I don't give a shit whether you take a day off
Or you're going to lunch or to fax something
Or when you'll be back

It's that I don't care if you are sitting
Right fucking there behind me or not

Good
Fuck you
Feel it

Your thoughts are right on the money.

Sorry for enjoying myself so much
You miserable, drab little bitch

You just keep trying to bring me down
Push my nose in the corporate culture
You draw your existence from it
Try to suck mine out with it

It don't work for me

I don't work for you

Get that shit outta my face

You answer on the first ring

I could make a Tupperware set
From the plastic in your tone

And fertilize gardens with your bullshit

                    • • •

Both Ways

The perfect morning
for sleeping in.
Grey and cool, a quiet house.
And I have no trouble
picturing you.
Your face, half under the covers.
Your hair spread out on the pillow
behind your head.
I see the bend of your knees.
And your arms pulled into your chest,
your hands close to your mouth.
I hear the slow, soft, steady rhythm
of your breathing.
Most of all
I feel the warmth of your body,
contained under your blanket,
held tightly in my mind.


my fists feel fucking fabulous
my hands heavy, hard and huge
and I can see everything
smashing to pieces around me
under lights the vivid colors
of my disease

                  • • •


Art

All these figures
I see on the street are hard and ugly.
You are an angel, white
floating through,
never touching the puddles
or the gum.

There is no trace of you
in the butts flowing along the curb
in the filth stream of the gutter.

there isn't any
hint of your voice
in the coarse words of the fat man
arguing with the bald guy
in front of the deli.

I can't smell you
in the tidal wave of expensive odor
pouring off the overly polished
business woman.

You are not in the steady drizzle.
You aren't in the horns, the sirens
or the flashing lights,
or the blaring idiocy of some
wanna-be gangsta's car stereo.

I admire your untouchableness.

The way you stay untainted
and unattainable.

Though I scan the sidewalks
and look in the windows of the stores,
though I try and close to my mind
to all the miserable reality
in front of my eyes,
when I jump up
and reach out
for that higher plain
I fall short.

My outstretched hands
barely grip the edge
and they aren't strong enough to hold on
So I fall.

Back down into the world
of beepers and taxis and closing doors.
Of arrogance matched only by ignorance.
Of cigarette butts in the gutter.

Landing that much harder,
sinking that much deeper
more aware of my surroundings
for my brief flight to reach
the height from which I fell

You.



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