my favorite poem

location:home
environment:in awe of my favorite poet
a work by david perez

FUCK WORK

Fuck any job outside of the Major Baseball League that makes you wear your name.

Fuck the push mop. Fuck the punch clock. Fuck headaches. Fuck bruises. Fuck digging in the dirt and smiling when it hurts. The time has come to fuck work.

Fuck work. Fuck the days you’ll never see again and the one’s whose story has already been written.

Fuck work. Fuck funneling all your energy into one single activity that begins when you’re fifteen and ends when you’re fifty. Fuck that fact that retirement age is climbing like a speedometer needle at Daytona- fifty, fifty-five, sixty, sixty-five.

Fuck work like it’s something you don’t want to kiss on the lips. Fuck work then make love to a dance party. Because by day you’re a machine but at night you can be a robot. [here I do the robot]

Fuck work when everything that passes from your hands into someone elses is owned by someone else. When people are suspicious of what you have to offer because its free of charge. And when you can’t accept the generosity of others because there’s a camera in the corner.

Fuck the fact that Capital is today’s word for God and everyone you know goes to purgatory every time the office lights click off.

Now here’s the part where someone says why don’t you “grow up”, “stop crying” and “work is a natural part of life”. Well when did growing up become letting yourself down? And when did crying become an invalid expression of emotion? That’s what people who aren’t slaves to productivity do when they run out of human beings to talk to. They cry. They cry so that what’s left of God just might hear them again. And while survival is necessary, work full time doing something you hate for someone you don’t like is what you do before you learn to dumpster dive. Before you learn that in this town you can get free food any night of the week.

So fuck work. And if fucking is what you do to something when you don’t want to kiss it on the lips then I want long blistering foreplay with four-day weekends. I want to nibble at the lobes and nipples of marginally intelligent conversation.

I salivate at the thought of a conversation that doesn’t begin with some one asking how they may help me. You want to help me? Spend more time listening to poetry than cafe latte specifications. Give your boss a grande half-caf three pump of wup ass glass of take this job and shove it so that you can show me that it’s possible to take this life and do something you love with it.