Millionaire Poem

A while back, I wrote a poem from the point of view of a Billionaire. It was in response to a friend of mine who said "Oh, were there any poems against 'The Man'" when I told him I went to a poetry slam. I told him that yes there were poems against The Man. He said he'd like to see a poem from the point of view of The Man. I thought that was a great idea. So I wrote the Billionaire poem.

Watch it here.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5SpLTXM5ea0

However, give recent economic events, I thought it would be good to write a poem from The Man's now damaged empire. So here it is.

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Millionaire Poem

You are caught in the crossfire of ones an zeros that cover this world in a green grid of financial lasers. Binary talk between bank accounts and wealth without measure…..

Oh, I can’t. I can’t. I am the latest millionaire. I used to be a billionaire. Do you know how common I am? I wasn’t lucky enough to get a government bailout. I have almost nothing left. I had to sell two of my houses! Three of my offshore accounts are empty! I wouldn’t have my servants wipe my ASS with my stocks.

See? (wipes tear) I’m liquidating!

To come here, I had to fly first class! On an airplane with common businessmen. I prayed no one recognized me. I didn’t know what to do. The steward attendant lady person merely laughed at me when I asked to have the plane go faster. It was the worst four hours of my life. I had to shower for hours in my only remaining Manhattan penthouse. The economy was something I used to rule. I had a tiger by the tail. I still have assets totaling millions but I can’t sell them.

My net worth dipped below a billion dollars last week.

I’m one of you. There is no god. Now I’ll drink coffee from common street vendors and have my food prepared in….in….restaurants!

Help a fellow out who has also been hit by hard times. Do you need a financial analyst? Enron won’t return my calls. I know the score. You’re not a billionaire, you’re little people. I get it. Please. Can you spare a few million?

I’ll have my people call your person.



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My Job

At the labour slam last Monday, I wrote this poem about my job. I came in third so that was pretty cool.

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My Job

People who don’t work with their hands are parasites, or so the say. Does typing count?

Sitting in my ergonomically designed chiropractic chair, staring at my monitor through late nights, weekend, friend’s birthdays, and my life, I feel my body lack exercise. I feel the absence of sun. Us computer users become vampires. We spend hardly any time in the Big Room; the room where the ceiling is blue and there’s one giant light. I think that when it comes to laborers, computer programmers, animators, tech, and data entry clerks are the same as hands on oars in a slave ship.

Thought laborers work hard than us physically we are no less crushed. We are no less kept down by the man. Money keeps us at our desks. We walk past construction sties with eyes of envy for the men and women under the sun operating heavy machinery and just plain carrying heavy objects.

Computers use more power they they’re on standby, the say. I know exactly what they mean.

My life takes on aspects of the office and computers. The computer has become my memory. I am a cyborg except for the fact that my electronic parts are outside my body. I am owned by the new world yet as little a stranger to demanding bosses and overtime as children were in Victorian London textile mills.

Don’t get me wrong. When it rains, I am thankful that I work inside. When I receive a bonus, I am happy that I am paid well regardless of legislation pertaining to overtime in Canada for video game developers. When I’m on a creative roll, I’m thrilled that I get a chance to be creative from time to time in my job.

But other than that, I think I am just as much a worker as the man lifting crossbeams and concrete molds downtown.

We are both drained in different ways and neither of us makes the rules.





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Science Fiction 365 - Make Me

Hey there. Another post is up on 365. In the future, when our flesh slaves are kept alive by machines that weren't able to save us humans, what happens to those slaves?

->CLICK HERE<-


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