BOTTOMS UP TO THE BOTTOM-LINE BOTTOM FEEDERS

“Rave reviews have followed improvements to the twice-yearly survey of employee engagement.” ------------------------- financial industry newszine

Imagine that...
the suits are stark raving glad
management gone manage mental
pouring over the delightful details of data
percentiles exceeding Excel expectations
by a disorder of magnitude.

Bottoms up to the
bottom-line
bottom feeders!

Digitally distributed
over prairies and mountain ranges
wildermess and urban ranges
in the bling of an i
or double-crossed t

“The impact will resonate throughout the business sector & adjoining neighborhoodlums,”
gushed the SVP, Dept of Expansionary Efficiencies.

“This is paper cutting edge stuff,”
asserted the AVP, Dept of Dynamic Inaction

“This will impact deeper than the thorn in our competitor’s side,”
trumpeted the Chief Excretory Officer.

It’s concise
to the point
to the Power Point
of impoetency
the communicult of communication
the ejaculatté of banality boners

It’s not about life.
It’s about bottom.lines@the-end-of-the-day.com

Human Resources has no language
It communicates in binary code
-------It’s
-----neither
------black
-------nor
------white
0000000000000000000
-------nor
1111111111111111111
-------but
1010011101010010010
------blends
--------of
-------gray
the pasty pallor of cadavers
on stainless steel
in florescensual rooms

Dumpster the diversity
of 2’s, 3’s, 4’s,
jagged 5’s
spicy 6’s
cutting edge 7’s
the upright infinity of 8’s
and flaccid 9’s

Everything is
-off or on
--no or yes
---0 or 1
dead or alive.

APOETCALYPSE NOW

You smell that?
Do you smell that?
What?
New poems, son.
Nothing else in the world smells like that.
I love the smell of new poems in the morning.
You know, one time we had mediocrity bombed,
for twelve hours.
When it was all over we rose up.
We didn't find one of 'em,
not one stinkin' banality.
The smell,
you know that lyrical smell,
the whole mediocrity,
smelled like …
poetry.

==========================================

The message below is brought to you by the Derivation Department of the Creative Intelligence Agency of the Peoples Republic of Poetry to enhance the appreciation of this poem.

The poem is derived from a small script segment from Francis Ford Copolla‘s movie, Apocalypse Now. It is one of several powerful scenes in the movie.

A contingent of USAmerican soldiers attacked a village of Vietcong so that they could enjoy some R&R surfing on the village beach. The Vietcong were uncooperative, so it was necessary to call in some sexy sleek fighter jets to fumigate the adjacent jungle with napalm. In the midst of the carnage, the USAmerican commander took a moment to be reflective to a novice grunt. The original script reads:

You smell that?
Do you smell that?
What?
Napalm, son.
Nothing else in the world smells like that.
I love the smell of napalm in the morning.
You know, one time we had a hill bombed,
for twelve hours.
When it was all over I walked up.
We didn't find one of 'em,
not one stinkin' dink body.
The smell,
you know that gasoline smell,
the whole hill,
smelled like …
victory.

The scene (1 minute) can be seen here.
The full scene (18 minutes) can be seen here.