Worse for him, I suppose. You can tell he's pissed.
And then, there was that new job. I thought I had it wrapped up for sure: I had to do so many sleazy things to get it, and in the end, I had to swallow my pride, make some promises I didn't want to keep, and really PAY THE PIPER, as they say. Not that I was really looking forward to it, but you know, I can only be in sales for so many more years, especially with the economy going to hell like it is.
But NO, my job broker had to go and get greedy on me. As if what he wrung out of me wasn't enough, he had to go and double and triple park on the same job. What an asshole. And then he's calling me back, like "I'm not sure you're qualified, are you sure you're qualified?" and I'm like "sure, I've been to Chicago at least ten times in my life, what more do you want?" And then the jerk goes and tries to give my job to someone else, and then gets himself busted by the fed on top of everything. So now, I'll be punching the clock again on Saturday, just like I have been for the past twelve years.
Oh well. It would have kinda sucked to be the junior senator from the state of Illinois anyway. Good riddance.
Here's a poem. It's old, but it's what I got. Sometime within the next couple days I'll post a new Hoosier Pete EP for download here.
SPRING, NEAR THE KENNEDY
Rain ankle deep
soaks through holes in shoes.
They're dealing morphine at truck stops in Clarksville -
it's not news, friend,
nothing surprises, and little lives here.
This, then, is the promised land:
cancer as connective tissue,
a facile denial of what is, followed by the
disappearance of is:
a map spread across the passenger seat . . .
here, by this cigarette burn,
an anonymous junction of Interstate 65.
Hell is there, or hell is not.
Stories are told, rich at a dime a dozen:
and a filmist’s manufacture,
an oncologist's atmosphere . . .
and this, the promised land,
blurred with opiates
dispensed like potato chips in the Bigfoot.