Animus

I hear you behind me. 3- 2- 1.
You predictable scourge. You wildebeest.
How could anyone not?
Your legs thundering like giant denim buffaloes.
Shaking my cubicle walls. My Jesus.
A stone-faced Vasili Arkhipov. USSR.
My black-and-white Picasso
whipping like a mud flap in your wake.

I feel your parasitic eyes peering,
sticking to my back, crawling
over my neck. Lurking. Looking
at my screen hoping to see something
to report to them. You good citizen.
You gold star autism poster-child in
special sweatpants with your blue ribbon
and squeaky tennis shoes.

I fooled you, you bison.
There's not a damn thing for your fat sideways
eyes to see besides words,
pixilated ink that you, even with
your constant eyes on me, cannot possibly
read from your incessant passes to
the water trough and back again.
Your goddamn "bladder problem"
I've heard about for a thousand years,
surely, some grotesque STD
from some ghetto-trash hookup.


I wrote this about you, you mammoth.
You beast. Shave your beard. Stop showering
yourself in cheap body spritz. No one cares
that you Uber in the evenings, or about your
goddamn diets that always fail, obviously,
or your fucking wiener dog.
And fuck your Yoga and your wine tastings
and your parents in Michigan and your
cuck boyfriend and your San Diego timeshare.

Move cubicles or else. Request a transfer to
where it might be that you are wanted.
Not over here in the Badlands. Over there
in the housing projects. In the ghetto
where everyone is loud and nosey.
A block party with the ripple and the goose.
Not behind me looking over my shoulder
like the goddamn SS, jackboots to match.
You ANTIFA hairy cunt. I don't wear your gold star.
I'm not your goddamn Jew boy
to be dragged into a supervisor's inquiry
so to exalt your due diligence.
Your social holocaust is not to be waged against
me and my freedoms. You walking menstruation.
You case for adult abortion.

I know you. I know your shit schedule.
When you eat. What you eat.
When you come in late and when you leave early.
I know your unauthorized calls and copies.
I know you shop online on paydays and hack on Mondays
which fills me with horrific thoughts of
what you do on Sundays to that hole
of a mouth and that bacteria-laden black cock cave.

I won't miss you when I'm gone.
But I'll never forget the reverberation
you made, you hungry, hungry, hippo.
Nor the disgusting sound of your sneeze.
Blowing that baked-potato nose.
Your snot orgasms. You pan-gender, mentally-ill, curd.
A herd of yourself, you Inspector Gadget.
You retarded warped Nancy Drew.
You fur-burger eating carpet troll.

No. Pets are not like kids. And you
do not resemble Demi Moore. At all.
Not even with the Revlon factory on your face
and had she swallowed a Belgian blue cow.
I ought to thumbtack your chair,
loosen a few bolts, and listen for you
to fall. Then laugh. That would teach you for putting
eyes on me. Spying over my shoulder.
Reporting me for being.