It’s bright, loud,
perfect.
Sunglasses self-consciously
facing the future,
staring up at forever,
waiting for it to shut up.

Can you believe
they’re actually paying this guy?
This bank president?
No one knows for sure what he does;
some sickening success.
The enduring Legend of How to Get Ahead.
Back, like cooked crack.
Back to lift up and inspire.

This shrug.
This eye-roll.
This Be Best.
This pair of eyes
that look the other direction when it matters.
The coldest pimp,
up there telling us to be out here
looking for somebody to hold.
This heartfelt embrace,
holding everyone close, and
preparing us to fly.
He means every word.
He’s paraphrasing Liz Phair;
talking about how it’s nice to get paid,
but better by far to be liked.
Like we’re fooled by that.
Like we don’t know how he’s getting paid.
Like a slavemaster can teach you to anything other than how to be another slavemaster

Like I’m better.
Like I didn’t turn on Liz Phair when she tried something different.
Like I didn’t act like she owed me something better.
Like I didn’t consider myself as sophisticated in high school,
because I jerked off to her,
instead of some less intellectual hot chick.
Like I didn’t assert ownership.
Like I didn’t believe that she was chasing shitloads of money.
Like I’m not taking notes right now,
because I can’t imagine anything better than being a more benevolent slavemaster.