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Holiday Job zurich colored brightly man listen to poetry, glance back over shoulder and say to me: "this is your holiday job?" now i don't even know what the fuck a holiday job is, but my thoughts scream yeaahhh!--ten bucks an hour to sit on my ass: read write recite poetry breakfast lunch late-afternoon snack qigong yoga breathe lao-tze dim sum and not once have i heard that plantation whip crack! every other hour phone ring reverie bring tangerine-orange dream with ani amy emily & me holding high court in the lowlands of memphis, tennessee... turning my thoughts to dc-- cooled by the early-afternoon ac i reflect on being benched by the international multi-conglomerational corporate SPONSOR told me to "get a job" but i think less of that than i thought of him (though i was careful not to say so) and now it's journal entry card letter chapbook lift breathe bend knees don't forget take time color in Chinese- (did i mention chapbook?) and now wouldn't ya know it-- the damn phone's off the hook! (and please note that i don't even care) because b'cause b'cuz my ambition is tethered to my soul rather than some silly obnoxious and earthly bound goal, so after the "day job" evenings & weekend spend freely: sweat lodge open mic acupuncture reiki poetry poetry & more poetry dvd nap make a meeting can you feel me? "this is your holiday job?" still hangs in the air & the only response i can give i am giving-- look that man right straight in the eye and say, "yeah--i live for a living."
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