Thursday, February 8, 2018

My God My Job in the Global Economy - Joe Fresh T&T Can't Buy Me Love

Bangladesh - China – Canada – Joe Fresh T&T Can’t Buy Me Love

my god my job in the global economy

let me tell you
i am a simple man
in a corporate cross-global space
living in hotels
eating in restaurants
walking on streets
swamped in urbanity
a soul among millions
Dakka - Beijing - Vancouver
swimming in a swamp of madness
cars and neon signs
and mergers...

this is no marco polo world

no wilderness
no daemons
no wonder
no treasure
no awe
no sirens

not even conquering

for all is conquered
all has conformed
we export and we import now
we own
we buy
we come laden with oil, wet
we come laden with sport shoes and cell phones and garlic, sweat and grime
we unisex partners, ooooh
come go laden with the same
and call ourselves richer, fairer, peaceable even tolerant for the effort?

but i
with little to do but open my eyes
i can see
the movers and shakers, banga bazaar
the hawkers on the street sides, wangfujing
the gals in the clothing shops, rideau centre
like myself, existing
paying a bill
watching the world move past them, they
like myself
making a penny
maybe two!

your pennies
my pennies
our role on stage is the same,
i earn a buck or two for two years commitment to a god job
good god save the world job
you earn a penny or two for each day making sales
god the dollar and all else pales
who knows what next
maybe me no contract
maybe you no thing to sell
we will all have to hunt
for something new to do
our bodies brains on market shelves

oddly godly jobs
in a monolithic certainty
of ocean going freight ships ploughing the waters of the seven seas
of flares burning through the dark of night above natural gas wells
of women buried beneath rubble a thousand mourned
of men buried beneath their tons of coal
of zero one zero one zero one
one digital voice
one prophet of truth
just buy, sell, and ye shall be blest

so we are all the same
sharing this same god
a nice place to be
this monolithic certainty of conformity

no doubts about you being some… other
no, no stranger no more
just me
just you

maybe for the first time
i can see the servers in the restaurants in this foreign land
servers as people
as persons
as close as possible
we are friends
i must eat
they must make a few dollars
together only for a brief moment
to see if the stranger enjoys the food
myself responding
a tip to him
a tip to her
in english
maybe in what we call chinese

slurping with gusto
holding the cup of hot tea between my hands
grasping the beer glass the man that i must be
i pay, my hungers satisfied
they earn, their weekend movie paid for
sex maybe
human contact
film or skin

i smell the taxi drivers
cigarettes dangling from their lips
the smell of beggars
their children holding my arm

i smell the street
women marching arm in arm
sweat of a man tumbling home

and wow so strange
how i see in others
the meaninglessness of their cars
the emptiness behind cosmetics
all so so much oh my god the same everywhere i go


my eyes wide
god knows my mouth and our hearts sealed
no threat to our dollars or jobs
clothes behind glass
eyes caged behind frames
hearts boxed behind a disney bill of goods

oh, all these people i am supposed to love
they whiz past
gone somewhere
far, far away from here
far from this pavement beneath my feet

and wow so strange
i see on the street
men, neatly trimmed hair, legs hurried
long black trench coats fluttering as they dash
their hands busied with digital devices
other men walking briskly together
climbing into air conditioned cars while rickshaws stream on by

stern, self important
their hands busied with briefcases
far from this pavement beneath my feet...

this pavement beneath my feet...

i stand still on a street corner
grey, polluted sky above
gusting wind tousling my hair
my sanity found in knowing somebody near
even in the smallest way, yes
here i am in Dakka, a concentrated place, yes
here i am in Beijing, bustling millions, yes


here i am with people
some, like the restaurant servers, here together
some, like the men and their briefcases, worlds apart...

but people all the same

and my heart reaches out...

i think we kid ourselves when we say our career keeps us going...

if you take away people, even for half a day
if you take away familiarity for several days
we begin to fall apart...

so it is people
this is human life

we live a kind of mirage
believing that our manifestations are our substance...
the sewer cover with a fish pattern, our washed glass windows,
our machine made gloves...
that this is all our creation
the madness of urbanity
utter destitution in its meaningless

the mirage of false gods…


i think...

these false gods of my modern world
are nothing
for the Venicians loved their Venice
the Mayans their temples
the Algonquin their long houses
and the Greeks their Sirens

these false gods of my modern world
are nothing
for i have you
i have the rickshaw man working for his children
i have the lipsticked woman selling dumplings and her smile to her friends
i have
how meaningless i am...

…provided love.

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