Buried deep within an old and dog-eared copy of a novel high up on my bookshelf comes the following:

Analysis as an instrument of enlightenment and civilization is good, in so far as it shatters absurd convictions, acts as a solvent upon natural prejudices, and undermines authority; good, in other words, in that it sets free, refines, humanizes, makes slaves ripe for freedom. But it is bad, very bad, in so far as it stands in the way of action, cannot shape the vital forces, maims life at its roots.

So, to stave off spiritual strabismus, I am taking a calming departure from fustigating Bush.

I was going through an old pile of papers in my apartment and I came across a poem I wrote five years ago, shortly after I moved to Chicago. I titled this poem “Wjorksex”. Enjoy!

            Linoleum



            Long driblets of spittle arc from his lip

            And waiver in their descent

            To the inner lining of his underwear



            Hangover.  Sweaty.  Ready to die.

            The bathroom door glides open and

            His head snaps up from his knees, awake.



            The Associate by his cubicle is from Tel Aviv.

            She has fluffy, wet eyes.



            He is too crapulent to even fantasize

            About the woman from Tel Aviv.

            So he looks away and points and clicks.

            He makes an alpha-numeric mess.



            The woman from Tel Aviv asks him,

            “So, what is it you do?  I assume you…”

            She looks at him with requisite interest.

            He stops thinking.  He blinks.



            “I’m an actor.”

            She relaxes and looks surprised, bouncing.

            “Oh, another one!  There are so many working

            In this office.  Have you met Phil?  You should

            Talk to Phil.  He’s in a show, I can’t remember

            Which one.  You should talk to him.”

            She is impressed with herself.  She has talked.



            He shrugs and smiles and says, “Yeah.”

            He looks at the clock and figures it’ll be

            Ten more minutes before another nap



            In the stall.  In the bathroom.

            Pants down.  Knees clutched.



            Drooling into his underwear.