Faculty Meeting

Flipping the switch
Pretending to care
Chained to the minutes
singularly ticking around
the oval of doom.
Hair is rising
toward magnetic colors
conspiring in hermetic stratospheres,
stale bread dipped in fat,
electromagnetic layers ordained by gods
keeping humans locked in space.
The edge remains forever distant.
Over-sized tongues clamor for compliments.
Seeds blow across the sidewalk
that will never sprout or bloom.
A job is spat spat
down the chain of command
where minions run wild
screaming at silicon
in chaotic clusters
wreaking madness and fear.
A mindful minute restores
the pecking order of souls
before nerves wash the cycle
rusting the chains unable
to ensnare bony feet dancing
over the pollution the riffraff
the never-ending clangor of death.


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