I Dare You To Sell It

After Bob Black's "The Abolition of Work"


Get your hand out of the machine
There is play you are a primate
Prime to reclaim the day
Who has a right to time?

I sit at my desk read about the abolition of work
Co-workers pass by I close
Sure they saw
I should leave the window open
Walk out the door
Shouting absurd truth situation murder
Productivity is war!
Get fired for insubordination collect unemployment
I have twice applied for such benefits
Wishes granted wrote two books
Turned them in to the government for homework
They put the pages in my permanent file
Cross referenced my parents
Found I came from a good color
Approved the claim’s validation
Deposited me directly into a food bank
Sent resources for success to my last known address
Set plans to check in twice weekly
Care of progress

Bernie Sanders wants you to have a job
Donald Trump wants you to have a job
Karl Marx wants you to have a job
Jesus Christ was a carpenter when he quit was nailed to wood
Did union labor build the crucifix?
Self-replicating nanogenetics
Weekly ration of five loaves, two fishes makes seven
Social security
Make me a robot
That I might be hidden from all these feelings and hunger
That I might eat my ego be full of myself
Throw up oil convert to dollars
Live under the landlord’s uber
Wait for googlifcation to map my territory
Is there anything I can help you with?
I am covered over with bosses

School office military prison
A body is offered shelter in exchange for its output
They call that income
Incoming! Taxes!
Give and take, take and give back,
take back take back take back
Monday morning from curses
Weekends from blackouts
This fast food pizza
These markets and derivatives
Replace tired cranky with having no answers
I will not speak for my rested one
I will not become a boss in a world yet to be imagined
We will get there and take a nap
Recover our senses before walking again

I walk, I wander
I love, I wonder
About empty buildings and the homeless
Dumpsters and the starving
Schedules and depression
Downtown traffic and isolation
The paranoia of money
They are all out to get me

The privilege to quit
Resistance of lateness
I was having a punk rock panic attic on the bed’s edge
Drinking green tea smoking weed
Everything is going to be okay
The no-hero returns home numb with rotten toes
Having plundered a paycheck of treasure seeking escape
Get me out of this place out of this place
Let’s be a fantasy
Fake it until you make it
Reconnected to the extent of activity
I started with nothing waited to touch
I wrote this poem because it lacks value
I dare you to sell it



Rambler, troubadour, dissident tablet, unsuppressed badass, mugwump agitator, active verbiator, fine print peruser, incontinent spirit, heretical accountant, America addict, knowledge sharer, provider when asked of free literature, radical cowabunga royal ranto this then here Matt Clifford is a middle-aged carpenter teen wife candy poet eating journals off the bathroom floor publishing the result on a gold scroll. He is the author of The RantoDance of Anonymous from Necropolis and his Machine, and Ballad of Todd Last Year, and the bassist of Black Market Translation.