Corporate Sheet Cake

 

Dawn of the millennium, 1999:  my nervous breakdown manifests itself as clinical anger.  I smear on war paint and get on the A train.  Beware the person who opens a newspaper too wide into my space, who sits next to me and bangs me with their elbow while searching for gum, who rests a bag on a seat while the train is crowded…

Flowing with the stream I’m a fucking human lemming on 42^nd Street.  GOD FORBID I walk west while everyone walks east — these gray-suited motherfuckers would knock me down!

I get to the corporate hell-hole without a bruise, without running into co-workers on the way demanding exhausting talk.  I don’t like a lot of the people here.  Most are aggressive, game-playing, conniving, shit-eating grinners – back-stabbing, pus-filled goons.  They keep the system going in circles with great numbers of casualties all over the world.  Consciousness doesn’t negate my complicity, as I purchase the shoes made in Chinese factories, consume the items that require the going elsewhere and sucking out resources and labor for this never-ending demand of we who seek great distraction for the cost of a gaping hole filled with Zoloft.  Ahhhh, but what soothes a mind heavy with routine and knowledge?  A call from Martin Lemmon’s secretary Gabby on the 57th floor – “Sandee, let everyone know there’s cake left over from the meeting in conference room B.”