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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


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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