• blog

    End.

    A chapter has ended in my life and I couldn’t be more thrilled. Nervous? Slightly, but that’s because I saw the murky light at the end of the corporate middle-management tunnel and there was a wheelbarrow half-full of money glowing in stink flies. “All you have to do to get that money is shake the Devil’s calloused claw and sign on the dotted line; in blood, of course. Oh, and … just the tip, that’s all. Promise.” Nothing is free. There’s a trade-off for everything. It’s ignorant of the peasant to think he could impress the King enough to befriend him and even more sloppy to think his new friend…

  • poetry

    laborer’s maladies

    labor (lā′bər) : n. a refused n outdated worK model actively being replaced with technology by men without callused palms vowing to program away the imagined turmoil of honest, hard-worKing sweat worKing man has no time for imagination mastery of amnesic repetition is profitable proper worK flow is poetic on a green-chain nirvana in mundane mill-worK mindlessness pump petroleum polluting any vision of tomorrow the buzz of the worKer bee satisfies the queen tithe wage n divide taxes nicKels to downtrodden drunKs n druggies n inattentive moms w/false-pride entitled n exaggerated self-image won’t wear a uniform name-tag; born deserved generational ‘ting. follow n liKe bj draKe

  • prose

    comfort . is . in . routine .

    you drove pass/d that warehouse every morning as mom drove you to school n now she drops you off there to worK . you wear a uniform n call it a career n no one is the wiser ? you’ve flush/d hope n potential down the same drain as vomit/d pabst blue ribbon n beef eater gin . the struggle of the artist has been replaced w / the suffocating stability of living cheque – to – cheque . just like dad said , ” comfort . is . in . routine . “   follow n liKe bj draKe

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