MY FAT FUCKING BOSS

There's nothing worse

Than writer's who write about writing

It's bad enough that we're so fucked up to begin with

But then to cry when the words aren't coming fast enough

Because you've exhausted that memory of your ex-girlfriend,

Your dead mother

Your fucked up friends who you don't really worry about

Your job

And the money

Where's the fucking money! Always the fucking money!

When I've exhausted all these topics

And I'm staring at an old DOS computer screen

A cheap steak frying with onions in the broiler

And a beer glass full of coffee

When I've exhausted all these topics

And I've already talked about my overdose and pissing all over myself in the emergency room

And I've already talked about the group homes

The special schools

And the empty road

When I've made fun of working for a living

Especially downtown in dirty buildings and an evil stupid boss who doesn't quite comprehend why an hourly employee would be compelled to

make a personal phone call on company time

When I've made fun of my boss

Railed at my abusive father

Inked the drugs

The broom closets

And some transsexual hooker down in the Tenderloin

When I've written all about me and moved onto my friends

Exposing their fears

Their weaknesses

Their infidelities

When I've written of my friends habits

The lies they've told

The late term abortions

The arson

And one less than spectacular murder

When I've written of my old friends and then posted their secrets on my web page all in the name of art

And I've got nothing left to talk about that I can imagine anyone would be interested in hearing

Then I feel like writing about writing

And this is the greatest sin

It means the poet has scraped out his insides and come up with nothing

I won't bore you with a poem about poetry

About my struggle with the english language

Instead I'll just say

That my fat fucking boss

The stupid prick I had mentioned last week when he cut off my internet access

The shit fucking ex-hippie who used to follow the grateful dead before he sold out so thoroughly that THE MAN adopted him

That guy is not so bad

Even though he rails me for making personal calls

And seems to have customer service representatives confused with telemarketers

Even then

I am now convinced he is not specifically out to get me

And I feel bad for rewiring his phone

And breaking into his email and erasing all his messages

And while I'll always fuck off as long as I'm on company time

I no longer blame him for his singular lack of imagination

Or his inability to understand the common man

And without my lovely boss

With his rosy red cheeks

I would have nothing to write about

Since the group homes are so long ago

And the institutional high schools

The abusive father

And the drugs and the jails are also long ago

That without a stupid boss (and like cops, I've never met a good one)

But without a stupid boss

I'd be writing poems about writing poems

And that is the greatest sin of all