• He's now cringing from the lack of white dots
    between each beautiful ladybug
    hand-painted meticulously
    on his pedestrian paperweight.

    Willing it to walk out the six-story window,
    he spots burnt micro-bread
    on his toasted, six-inch sub;
    his voracity jumps instead.

    To top off the stomach's plunge,
    here's the voice of a nasal angel
    beating once more the retainer tattoos
    of an after-lunch circle jerk session
    into his tightly tempered tympanums.

    Before her breaking crescendo
    drowns out his office orchestra
    of John Caged Silence,
    he takes the stand
    which cradles the
    phoniest of music
    and
    slings it to the floor.

    This anonymous David
    has had enough of the Goliath
    known elegantly as
    the efficient endurance of the inefficient

    and while he joins his stomach
    in gravity's limbo,
    he can't help but notice the black gum
    sticking on the sidewalks.