My fate lay in his fat hands
which always seem to flail
about wildly as he

blabbers bullshit about
red and green
production deadlines

I am constantly questioning:
What does it mean?
What am I doing here?

training to kill or be killed
within an industry
in which the rich get richer

drinking the blood
of the poor that fall through
the holes in the factory floor

My palms dripped sweat
as he had his assistant
distribute the final checks

your services are no longer needed here.
Fuck you and thanks for four years

We can escort you to the front door
(as if I have forgotten the way)

His wallet is morbidly obese
of course he is just doing what
it takes to make ends meet

Doing what it takes to fill
the space, satiate the greed

I made my way back
to my car,
inhaling deeply

a slow
calm sigh
of relief

I stared at the
the sunrise high
limit shining sweetly

through thousands
of windows
of opportunity.


  1. Ouch,
    trust not, want not --
    the market is impersonal
    and cares for none;
    but then whom do we trust?

    You evoke the bitterness here very well.

  2. we are the market. we decide. it is wrong because of greed. those to the trough first will not look back. animal farm. ~robert