Corporations want to know
what I do
and when I do it—
crave stacks of information:
my zip code, for instance,
and the number of light bulbs I own,
and the precise weight
of the dust under my bed, et cetera.
The first commandment of the market place says
"Thou shall hand over thine underwear
for inspection, on cue."
But I finished cooperating with companies
I am done giving away my resources.
I'm sick of cameras down my throat,
seeing my innards
but blind to their workings.
Oh, Corporate Grandpoppies,
stop going for my veins;
get out of my apartment.
Hands out of my savings account!
Leave my checkbook unmarked
and my sanity intact.
Go to the assassinating cold of Pluto.
Go study someone or something else:
the environment, for instance,
and how to make yourselves stop
screwing it up.
Back to Poetry