Between his office and his apartment,
between his penance and his lesson,
Spill-O labors—a slave to solitude
or a slave to something stranger.
Because work is the love that lived
through the disaster of winter and the orgy of spring.
Listening to the businessmen under their bullet points,
synthesis sounds like Sisyphus.
But he focuses on the fickle goddess of money,
who alternately gluts and cuckolds him.
He charts the Oedipal pyramids, organizational pyramids,
food pyramids—all the maps that matter.
A dream needs dollars
or it will die of its own survival.
Spill-O goes into the bathroom stall
to check how much money is left in his wallet.
Broke but unbroken,
he says they can take away the heat,
take away the lights for all he cares.
He won't stop until he's undone or outdone
all that they've done to him.
