on obtaining a note from your corporate love machine

when this corporate-type handmade bludgeon of a weasel man does the usual, flips a
hand-scratch note of utter dis-importance (hidden in scribbled nonchalance), this, this is a
common practice. my first was fuscia pink, a bright colorful corporate stop sign, stop light
flashing as you realize, "hey, I was supposed to maybe do something back there ..." that
cold swell of fear in stomach and slow trachea gulp

why am i supposed to talk to you? this is pre-designed composition death, and i am not a
part of the de-humanization synthesis ... i'd rather be silent or scream or tell you all the
things that should be said and would be said and i will say, that will further nail my
corporate ideation of success to a smooth, slick expensive coffin texture. they call it a
receptacle so it has no meaning passed generic encasement of a thing, a general "no
offense" meaning (less), doesn't sound as bad, and is equal in its "no after affects" status ...
fuck this bureaucratic talk, death to babies is not "unfortunate casualties or circumstance,"
is not "the drawback negative number" the other side of the fucking Roman swinging coin
pendulum ... you are not ceasar and we are not the barbarians of britannia and gaul
however much we'd like to have their freedom in ship skin.

yeah, think free, accept less ... darts are no longer thoughts and thoughts are no longer
freedom because they have no feathered wings to tar anymore ... they killed all the birds ...
or at least cut off their wings and made them kiwi or at least plucked all their feathers to
disguise them as mcdonald's chicken

mother: is that who you are, a fetal remnant?
me: not anymore ...
mother: so what are you now?
me: a bird ...
mother: what kind of bird?
me: a rare bird ...
mother: did you know i ran into a bird?
me: oh?
mother: yes, and severed its head. all the kids at west call me the bird killer.


and so it goes on ...