I sat down today after a long day
working in stores and more stores
tired from driving trucks and
driving retail sales.
I'd rather drive my truck through
the store and declare, amidst
the wall's rubble:
My people have you forgotten?
You are free!
The greatest slave-masters enslave
not with chains but with
illusions—they effortlessly
stand by—backs and shoulders slack—
while you seek out your
own chains, provoked by their words
and promises of avoided terrors
of poverty and failure.
You hold the key to your chains!
Unlock them—drop the chains
to the ground and pick up
books, knowledge, freedom!
Live on Top Ramen and let
the library be your sustenance.
Become a dollar-menu debutante
because you needn't resumes, references,
cover letters or cobalt ties.
You needn't cut your hair, cover
your arms, or avert your eyes.
Look at their faces and declare
yourself a free man of no skills
but copious knowledge of
right and wrong and god and Bong.
Be the ones who slay the mythic dragon
of modern slavery and mediocrity.
Because why not?
And in the mirror
I see the lines dripping down my
cheeks and the puddles of skin
beneath my eyes. My wrists grow
weak and my ankles sore.
One more beer should do the trick
and if not,
there's more in the store.
