The earth quaked
Beneath the CEO
As he re-torted
It’s no bodies fault
In a sense
Coming upon
The prophets of owed
Raking over
That thin lyin’
Between purveyor and consumer
I’m just
Doing my job
And it’s knot
My job
You are
Welcome
To the short end
Of that shtick
This poem was inspired by a specific instance of the ever-present marginal customer service amidst corporate America. There is an entire universe of bad customer service that lies between “It’s not my job” and “I’m just doing my job.” There is an entire universe of bad customer service that lies between callous executives’ inhumane policies of profit over people and wage slaves who have made learned helplessness an uninspiring art form. Our humanity can only slip away if we abdicate responsibility and response-ability. As much as the status quo sucks at any given moment, this is an invitation for humanity to step into such a vacuum. Even as the invitation is addressed as “Dear Occupant,” merely serving as a notice that your short end of the stick is being pared back or that the light at the end of the tunnel is being turned off, this would better serve as a pretext for revolution than learned helplessness. Part of humans’ Jōb description is a test of faith regarding devilish abets inhumanity. There in lies an affirmative response-ability to fix ballsy dehumanization that metes life on our knees. Countability de-mans it. In choiring mines want to no, excuses for whining a bout their purported eunuch situations, as if hitting the Hi C in loo of Kool-Aid™ was somehow passable. If this peers as sum bizarro universe, wrest assured that the job you may have may have nothing too due with this. Other wise, just, do your job.
