Tag Archives: Walt Whitman

Song of the Break Room

I celebrate the break room. I sing of the break room.
I loiter at its table, in a chair from the conference room.
The original chairs have collapsed under the weight of lunchtime levity.

I lean and loaf at my ease observing the box of Munchkins left over from the
morning’s Executive Committee meeting.
Only the plain cake ones remain, unadorned,
fit only for consumption when desperation beckons.

I have seen this postcard tacked to the bulletin board.
I have taken in its representation of warmth, frivolity, intoxication.
I have studied it and presumed much.

Gentle breezes redolent of pineapple, perhaps Coppertone.
Turndown service. It evokes the luxury that one has paid to enjoy.
No cheese Danish in a bag hung on the door handle, this.

Its reverse side bears happy tidings, promises of swift return.
The person who sent it two years ago no longer works here.

What is it? Rank, gross, bewhiskered with gossamer strands.
Its container yields no answer as to its origin.
The door opens and closes by scores of hands attached to persons with no known
olfactory disorders, and yet this thing remains, fecund, hirsute but glistening,
releasing more of its stench as it is pushed further
back to make room for everyone’s Greek yogurts.

It is no one’s job to deal with it. It is everyone’s job.

Who is that cannot be bothered with rinsing a bowl?
Who goes through all prior motions,
filling, pouring, heating,
stirring, heating again, lifting spoon to purs’d lips
and chewing, swallowing, repeating these motions
until the vessel is emptied.

What is it that makes you feel as though you cannot
clean up after yourself?
Where do you think you are?
Where is your mother?

The yellowing Dilbert comic strip!
It tells of managerial passive aggression while its mere placement
bespeaks the same.
I cannot tell you directly what is irritating to me. Dilbert is my voice.
I am Dilbert, and yet I am also Cathy.
You will sort of know who I am and what I mean.

Requesting The Removal Of The Small But Undoubtedly Uncomfortable Bit Of Timber From An Unmentionable Orifice Belonging To Brian McGrory, Boston Globe Columnist

Sir –

It pains me to think
that something very terrible
happened to you at some point
in this Land of Madras Plaid
and Boat Shoes.

Your rage erupts in epic, pissy splendor
splattering across your screen
and on my morning paper.

Hingham! You can scarce
utter its name without
bringing up bile, heaving
green foamy wobs, inspiring
grievous wracking coughs.

Would I could soothe
this torment, to find a means
of removing the small,
but undoubtedly uncomfortable,
bit of timber from this
delicate place on your person
without compromising myself.

For you see, I am Hingham.
I am its small incandescent
white lights along Main Street
at Christmas, its staunch
refusal to sully its streets
with franchises. I resist
everything but my own diversity.
But I never shop at Talbot’s.

I am the Hingham you cannot
see, for the starry pain
that blinds you to its seamier
side. Remove this stick, Sir!
For in its absence you will see
the dead Dodge Aries K

that sat in our yard much longer
than it should have, the pinched
face of the beady-eyed girl
who called me a “fuckin’ loosah”
roughly once a day, every day,
from 1983 to 1985.

Sadly the stick must needs stay,
for without it you’d have
one less thing
to grouse about.

Walt Whitman’s Facebook Page

I sing the song of social networking.
I give you my farmlands, my isle vast with riches,
my mafia more precious than money.
Behold! I will post that I like it on the staircase,
the desk, the floor next to the bed;
I will leave you puzzled, bewildered, enraged, perhaps turned on.
You will not know what I mean.

The game is over; yet for me never over:
For me it remains a memory and meaning wondrous mystical.
The jubilant cry from the flowering thorn to the flowerless willow,
“like, like, like.”
I, Walt Whitman, approve of your status update.

O Facebook! O Virtual city!
Land of delight, fertility, promise, and cut-and-pasted platitudes!
When I beheld thee my soul was enthrall’d, and danced a spiritual watusi.
O, gloria! Triumph! Yawp! Hosannah! LOL!