n his twenties
several attempts were made
at turning himself into a product,
since the citizenry appeared to require
a certain amount of recognizable packaging
before they could be bothered
to afford any attention
to the contents of a given thing.
He dressed himself a few times
in various shrink-wrapped suits
and occasionally tried on
some press-kit boots
and once even went so far as to ask his soul
to think about coming up with a Facebook username.
But no matter how hard he tried;
his efforts to get the privies* to notice,
to spread his butter onto gatekeeper toast,
to serve his bacon out onto the breakfast tables of the wide readership,
he eventually could no longer ignore
the nagging echo of Ecclesiastes 1:9.
Reluctantly settling back into his inheritance,
he took jobs for the check,
for as long as they could last.
As each situation consumed undeservingly
his dwindling give-a-fucks, his reserve tank of gas.
While his "now" kept on melting
his arctic ice-cap days fast,
and those that might be to come
were outgrown by those that passed.
The same fright that he once knew,
the fright he once had fled,
is still very much the boss of God,
adding venom to his dread.
This bureaucratic sea of eager drones;
the incurious bland, the over-fed meds.
The punch-clock battalions of the tweet-informed;
the know-it-all-hive, the group-think heads.
The suburban jungle of soft-punk consumers;
surveillance honey for the digital Feds.
Our War-Office crafted effort-mill;
Authority apologists, the living dead.
And yet, after several years of committing his after-hours
to exhaustive study of the way of the botnet,
he was eventually able to talk his way into a desk,
assembling Fortune 500 facelifts;
And though the new routine is nearly as grass-blade jagged
toward his soap bubble moment of existence
as is the idea of becoming one of the other Joel Moore's on Google,
it's somehow not.
At any rate,
here I am.
At least for now.