Hate your job or yourself but not both

The Supe is an asshole, the other Supe is an asshole,
I’m older than both of them, not put together.

They’re useless to me, to the horrible job,
they get paid more to show up as they suck the salt
off the shaft of upper Management
better.

I can’t say I hate them, even if I wanted to
shoot up the place
I get paid so little I can’t afford
bullets.

The women working there don’t put out, except for the vending machines.
The hottest one has the personality of a
wan corpse,
I’m tempted to fuck her tits just to see if I
get sent to prison for rape or
necrophilia.

Recently I got written up and the part of me
that’s truly alive delighted in the process.

It’s the part that will carry me across this River Styx
and car wrecks and unemployment and the truly beautiful women
so few in number
lowering their eyes,
turning away.

I began as a dead adult in a block of butter,
as the illusion carves away
I pray something noble will emerge, something fierce that stands
and has never kneeled.

For now it’s
this
and I’m trying so hard not to believe
this is the end.

I signed the paper the two jerkoffs
wrote me up on
and laughed in their waxen faces.

Then I went home.