Handful of rusty nails
Handful of staple remover
Handful of cocaine-scented glue stick
Handful of suspicious lunch breaks
I am blacklisted from the water cooler crowd
I am black lint and candied fennel converging
in a business reply envelope. I’ve ruined
another expense report with my drivel.
With my drizzle of reconstituted mincemeat.
Why don’t you insert your quick fix
into my report directory. I’ll promote you
I mean I’ll demote you so fast you’ll have to be slapped
with a special repair patch, you asshat wizard
of manila file folder frippery. You thumb-twiddling bureaucrat
of the redundant memorandum and the black pleated slacks.
Sploshing is the word that comes to mind
when I see your bland suit jacket, your attaché case
combined with your overzealous excitement
over a small and slightly stale slice of office cake.
I can’t help but wonder what you really want
with that stiff, lardy frosting. I think you want gooseberry pie
smeared all over the rigid creases of your (pants, upturned hands, swollen gland).
I think you want to bang your head against the keyboard;
lick meringue off the boss man’s huge lapels;
throw yourself into a vat of tapioca pudding,
slopped from everyone’s half-consumed snack packs
and you’ll wallow and splash in their leftovers
and you’ll drool and spit out ineffectual bullet points,
talking points, moot points, mission statements
fit to be condensed into (acronyms, baby milk, synonyms for cretin).
Here’s an acronym for you—WAM. Wet and messy fetishist,
slurping that glutinous vanilla like it’s the special formula for
(corporate success, mainstream appeal, the perfectly congealed)
lime JELL-O in your briefs. Sit down, you squishy little lackey.
Fiddle with these parameters. See if you can make my machine
print self-adhesive labels that say (pea soup, toadie, whore).
