get on the horn, asshole

get on the horn, asshole

this rabid pyramid schemer
of fiftyfivehundred “maggot mile”, boca
raton, appropriates in his subterranean boilerroom
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 soft-soled 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