get on the horn, asshole

by M.P. Powers

in all his savagery, this rabid pyramid
schemer of fiftyfivehundred
"maggot mile," boca raton, who is particularly babbitt
personified
appropriates in his subterranean boiler
room two dozen or so ill-spoken telemarketers
dressed in rebuttal sheets and lousy
self-worth, whose moral
fiber his excellency ineloquently assassinates
between pump-and-dump... when sales are slow,
or perhaps it's the way his delectable
eminence minuets
on nimble-toed crocodile
loafers, the mattress of his plus-sized womanly
arse smuggling
deathly gall, for god and country... or because
you too have witnessed our host's
nosehairs have grown
a mustache, remembering the time
his dimpled fist choked a fountain-pen
salesman's festive necktie while showering blue
invective over his sorry balding pate...

i have also boondoggled a pettifogging snit

which is neither here nor there
when night runs away with her dreams
and you
find yourself dead broke out-of-commission
and married to a bullhorn;

i know the feeling