God is Print Media

God is Print Media

By: Husam (Sam) Salman

I worked for a self-titled dealer, who in his garage lazed

And dreamed of faster cars because work was

Something your assistant did for you, and $800,000

Only bought you last year’s model of McLaren

Capricious state always unhappy

With what was just bought and had

Even his wife didn’t fare well – if it weren’t for the

Crack, they never would have gotten together.   

His own joints creaked and moaned with age of

Sloth and apathy.  Clutching to wardrobes

Seasons past… as though any of that will fit you

Again.

At first he spoke of paying me more,

Tens of thousands of extra, like money

In bonuses, Christmas would be made.

Then he spoke of how things needed to change,

On how times were tough, and “this all has to be

Done a certain way,” Innately, know the

Way on your own. You can’t expect him responsible?

To train you properly – he’s your boss not your mom.

Then you asked where I came from, and

What my language spoken, I muttered, “Husam Salman,”

Without a head turn or nod, “I am from Iraq.”

The third tale was the tallest of them all,

His daughter returned from Germany

And that sullen wretch, needed my

Job, because, well, you see, she already knew the

Roll.

Oh, Husam, his conviction clear, my check

Standing on the table top, wilted like lettuce

I sagged deeper into my thoughts, of newly

Leased Honda sitting in rented driveways

Of holiday house, it too soon to be lost.

That sinking feeling of shame; like I did something wrong,

There, on the weathered Persian rug and wood lined library

I embodied an immortal flame shrouded from the chaos

Happening just before my very eyes, enthroned to

My safe place, because this harsh was too real.

I dreamed I was a demi-god who walked with feet of flames

Winged guard, righting the cruel wrongs of injustice

Passion as my sword’s flame, immortal sun child – nemesis

Bringing balance to the miry way of detached cruelty.

So that one day Sisyphus can reach his goal.