This Industry

it is neither Love that motivates me, nor Hate
I love what I do, but "what I do"--
the clientele,
they wave their arms into the aisle
they suck down Garnatxa
the way I used to suck down PBR
the way I now suck down FDM

I discussed myself at length in these vague songs
always trying not to be clever
yet pack my words like rucksacks in the Corps
I disgust myself now as I become the thing I hate
(for this damn monolithic phone may well be
  the first step)
==black-shirted servant thieves
==who unjustly make their living
==jerking off the same assholes I hated first
==swiping their screens in the alleys
==behind every restaurant in our city.
This fucking industry.

A buffet of small cardboard boxes,
or other times, on more adventurous days,
a sandwich. or Pizza.
And unpacking their dainties onto fancy porcelain,
shooting water into the tallest crystal,
proceeding to nitpick,
half-assed opinions
about grease, oxidation
pulling apart bites
cutlery unwarranted
Plastic Judgments.
I feel more at home in the grease
than in the din of clinking glasses.
I'll take the pains of my honest brown soldiers
over the whines of my pale, spoiled financiers
any day, or any night.

Please.
Please.
Please, please please.
Don't let me become
this monstrosity,
this mockery of humanism,
this shallow lake of superiority
on whose beach I lounge.
Don't let me sell my sole
for this crap game.
Don't let me wear a tie
on these floors.
Don't let me take skins
over the skins I admire.
They don't know yet,
but I'm winning.