Corporate I

The air is dead inside.
Even the watercooler
is going through an identity
crisis.

Do they make the lights so dim
on purpose?
Air herself gave notice a few days ago.
Monday she won't be here.
She was crucial for the project here.
I wonder,
what coworker will take its place?

Some of them fear
Air's role will be outsourced overseas.
No official confirmation, though.

It won't get any more stifling anyway.
I noticed the trees blossoming outside.
It seemed to me Air was strolling there,
in Oblivion Park Road.

Blessed Air.
She's free now.

---

Bullshit

Collections and volumes,
huge wads of an alternate reality.
What am I talking about?
I am talking about them,
self-aggrandized resumes.
Parallel universes;
narratives that have taken no place
but inside the anechoic chamber
of perceived failure.
By means of repetition
they seem to have acquired
the strength of prestressed bricks.
Oh, and their ubiquity too.

As Insincere as
the crow's gritty death-chant,
hovering around,
keeping an eye on a rat race victim.
Fallen.
Or just weak.
Approaching.


Fragments, pieces.
An order to be found at any cost.

And don't get me started
about modern architecture.

---