Dreary And Dutiful

Hopeless workers
Dutiful and bleak.
Caged within the maze
Of stainless steel countertops
And tile floors pristinely deck-brushed.

Feeding the machine
That has no discernable head.
Only a boardroom of hungry shareholders
And insistent e-mailers.

Corporate catch-phrases
And unnecessary exclamation points
Pound into our heads
At every wrong turn.

From top to bottom
They slave the game,
Where there are no winners,
Only eventual losers and sub-par performers.

Oh come to me ye’ stomach ulcers,
Heart palpitations, and tooth clenching promises of hope that haunt in the night.
Self-sodomizations for off-days
And family promises betrayed and unkept.

If ever there was a god of the food industry
It would be have to be Kali.
Ravaging and destroying in the most extreme,
Yet subtly promising in distinct instances.

Why do we walk this plank?
This empty promise of eventual self-demise.
Are we just crazy
Or the dreamers of an impossible dream?

Why have I fucked myself into this thorny corner?
Why have I put a price tag on my life’s time?
Why do any of us keep coming back for more?
How can there be hope when the guests are all insane?

It’s all questions now.
I’m just digging for the magikal answer.