Six call centre years/what will the next six be like?/career made for fools

What If?
Brian never thought he would work in a call centre
When he lived in Germany he was unemployed
And while looking for a job he was forced to go
Work in a call centre and refused creating a fuss
I’m not selling insurance or loft insulation!
Put me on fork lift truck training it’s my job
Not some **** call centre 2 towns away

The stupid ***** running the training place
Offered to buy Brian a bicycle and he laughed!
You silly ******* cow retrain me on fork lifts
I need to renew my outdated licence
Not work taking calls like a fool robot
Half a decade passed and Brian
Ate his words working in a call centre!

And Yours?
Tell the world your story
Share all of your experiences
Working in that type of job
For 7 long ******* years
It wasn’t bad or good
It was what it was
A bit of everything
All thrown together
Life death in-between
There was music and song
Books and stories
Film and video
Each to their own
We endure differently
My trip is mine
What is yours?

To simplify,
To complicate,
These questions, on repeat,
In my questioning, confused head.

What do I want from this world,
Beyond simplification,
Yet a fraction of complication?
I’ll never know.

All I know, is that incarcerated birds,
still cheerfully chirp,
And nothing is ever what it seems,
Not even people.

I learned the hard way,
Achieving desires means,
Losing drive,
A sense of purpose,
And all fulfillment subsides.

Success is a state of mind,
Placement is what brings you peace,
So much to experience,
Yet so little focus.

At a certain point,
When getting old,
This contemplation follows,
And leaves me with nothing to show,
For all that I’ve experimented with—
Because staying put is too hard to bear.

Many hats on my head,
Many titles to claim,
I find it fulfilling to be,
Everything that motivates me.

One day I’m a fireman,
Another day I am a jailer,
This day I’m a poet,
Tomorrow I’ll be a mailer.

What’s funny is this,
A name and a shield,
Is merely a buck for a meal,
My ignorance is so bliss.

These paths are not me,
They are merely a guide,
For me to find whomever is me,
On a security guard’s salary.

To make films or to weep,
To keep jails or to sleep,
To fight fires or to leap,
Into this pen of little sheep.

Why is it that I,
Aim to be that guy,
Who’s career should imply,
That I’m “something” till I die?

An artist,
An actor,
An experiment of all factors,
I try hard to be somebody,
When I’m already my own everybody.

I’m exactly what I need to be,
In this world of all these faces,
Masks grow tight around these cheeks,
Why aspire to climb mountains,
And reach such heightening places?

I’m a detective one day,
An electrician by night,
A silly little dreamer,
Always ready to take on flight.

I’ll pilot this aircraft,
And spread my wings a’sailing,
Without prejudice or hesitation,
I may not always succeed,
But I’m never failing.

i don’t want life to be easy,
but i wish it were simple
i don’t want to pick flowers
to die in a vase on the table

it’s too late to retreat
it’s too late to begin
it’s too late to start over
i’m too broke to give in

i want it all or none
spend my days in a class or the sun
either a mansion or shack on a hill
if i could put in the effort, complete overkill

but they don’t want me to belong to the land
(only if i put a dollar in their hand)
so i am a little bit lost
a little bit lazy at a pretty large cost
and i want to know things but not out of need
fulfill my own longing, a curious greed

it’s too late to go back
it’s too early to die
it’s too late to start over
it’s no use asking why
can i only have just one?
rich exhaustion or penniless fun
i’m sure that some can,
but that someone’s not me
unless there’s something that no one can see

i’m digging for treasure
i’m not sure is there
maybe i’ll find it…
if i just change my hair

~
Black as coal.
Moth or myth?
It helps with the lights out.
And travels by thought.

Cleopatra enters Rome,
Dropping names,
Reciting pagan poetry,
Knocking on forbidden doors.

Nicole sees shadows
Of her former self
Staring back at her,
Rock paper scissors,
The color of three.

Give and take after take
On the burning soil
Of a blurred crusade.

Typewriters
And other assorted weapons
Form white lies and alibis,
Calibrating the dusted variations
Of a caught-on-camera obscura,
It is a dark waltz,
Some small hope still,

Yet there's a comma after still.
~

When your sister
died, it was the blue
box of Kraft Macaroni and
Cheese. Your half-
sister from your
father’s previous
marriage cooked it up
for you—she was only
a year or
two older than
you were—and you fell
asleep there on the
floor, where it remained half-
finished for the entire
night. When you
awoke the next
day, before you had even
opened your eyes, you 
thought for a brief
moment that maybe it
had all been just
a dreadful nightmare, but
then you opened them and
there the macaroni and
cheese still sat, half-
eaten on that paper
plate. No—
it had all
actually happened.

When your coworker
fatally poisoned
herself, you made
up your mind to
buy the nicest
ingredients you could
find and to cook the best
Italian pasta recipe you could
think of in order to
show your family
how much you loved
them. You wanted to be
present with them, to be still
alive with them. You
wanted to not
make the same
mistake twice, but
then there you were
at dinner, distant
for the entire
meal, unable to even
make simple
conversation, ashamed of
the awful contortions your
brain was doing in
order to process
your guilt over
her death.

When your father
died, it was some left-
over soup you had cooked
up a week prior. You were
embarrassed about how
the black-eyed peas and
sweet potatoes had turned out;
you apologized to your
wife for their mushiness,
and she smiled sadly and told
you it was the best
soup she had ever
tasted. After a week in
the refrigerator, the kale
tasted slimy. The soup was
overhot; its texture,
nonexistent. By
this point in your life, the
texture of nearly
everything—even that
of death—had become
wholly unremarkable
to you.

And when your old
friend from college
died, there was
no meal at all—just
a hasty cup of black
coffee you poured
yourself right before the
big work presentation
began. The text
message said that
he had thrown
himself from atop a
skyscraper in lower
Manhattan, and that
he had finalized his
divorce just a few
months prior. You
thought about calling
off the meeting, but your
boss said that he
would be in
attendance and, grimly,
you decided to swallow
your bitter emotions
right along with the
coffee—you didn’t
want to let
him down.

Agitation, despair and its winged variations, you name it
all repressed but still rise to test me

What is my recourse?
I tread lightly on this Escheresque concourse
It’s repeated often, I know
but the pen and keys are my most cathartic release
they’re magma to emerging flames
they’re sedatives for demons and angels alike
that reside on corners of this clavicle

How many steps could you take through my lens, my concave mirror?
Have you felt what I felt?
The brimming, cerebral cauldron bursting, putting volcanic geysers to shame
the questions outnumbering seconds spent since Earth’s nativity
the emotions ripping a rift through which rationality deep dives
it becomes Phelps in unknown depths
your body becomes both a Vatican and a Colosseum,
place of worship and place of war
and you walk the tightropes your vocal chords have morphed into
careful to seem like another replica, don’t wanna upset the blades they all balance on
don’t wanna scare the rest hollow, no,
best to follow and best to follow the regimen:

coffee beans and spice of delusion in the hazelnut syrup,
sip slow
follow the same cycle because change is a cocoon and cocoons ache like the past
keep on pretending to love the workplace
love the norms held over you
puppet strings bring warmth after all
in this solitary world cold as winter missile silos
and just as destructive

So I ask again, have you felt what I felt?

Do the few days in utopia offset the majority on rodent wheels?
Have you risen so high, to satellite peaks, to the best you’ve ever been
only to have the worst waiting on the coin’s parallel?

We flip like saltwater fins and backstroke till a back is left broke
I’m learning to discard hope but breathe in the alternative
I believe in better days, I will carve them from local stone
and build a home upon their surfaces
I now know paradise is a set of blueprints
happiness is no state of mind, it’s a direction to me
you may not notice when you arrive
but you keep going

and that’s the beauty of it
you let it be the wind
It’ll find you on your journey

Tell me again,
have you felt what I felt?