The plastic placard labeled Employees must wash hands before returning
to work
stares at me as if it invented passive
aggression amidst the fresh rank, feral
combustion, the kamikaze
rainbow of browns on a canvas of bleach.
I am Clint Hill
frantically climbing the trunk of a Lincoln Continental
stretch limousine.
Maybe his sphincter felt the
crack first, for his brain to catch up he had to abandon
his digestive
fail-safes. Or he fancied his
asshole a fire-hose, relishing the moment
of singular inertia. He’s a sadist, finding comfort in his
fecal closet, praying
his heart to stop, so he can
rest, locked here forever. He
hates me, my excesses,
my employment, my splendor
of dying retired in a luxurious tomb, buried
alongside a PERA account
held from my checks. He’s a
student of revolution,
finding the seams of
civilization for which to wedge his silent protest, degrading
the pillars of the free world,
till they crumble around his pantless legs.
He's Serrano, seeking grace
through the profane, chasing the perfect timbre
of
piss in a jar, to make sunlight soar.
Or maybe he's Pollock, just going for a shit,
the plainness of vinyl walls
calling to him
with a sadness, quiet and infinite.
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