Minutes

Can’t be sure, can we,
that the following’s not prohibited
by the first confidentiality agreement I’ve
been oddly hot to sign, as if it were
a financier’s manly handshake before
an Antarctica of secrets.

Watching the entrepreneur
spruik a gospel of developing world goodwill
listen, India’s a brilliant source of human capital
I, retaining what Whitmanian retro chops
the expansive eye of the bothered unAustralian
& an infuriating ability to go along

begin to recognise what
stuff like ‘service industries’ really means.
The movies, the restaurants, less the catalogues
of those still required to spot than
the well-clipped salesman or waiter
who fucking hate their jobs & clientele

all your grand transacting schemata
of the working poor & goal-setting best
is there to farm one key interest:
the fecundity & comfort of our corporate activists.
If I could pass on one lesson on behalf
of, well, you wouldn’t even call it a niche market,

it’d be: for fuck’s sake, just try & relax.
Ditch the gaudy colour photos saying VISION.
You are smarter than this, young businessmen
& women. Revel that your works are but
extensions of a power to charm. The blessed
couldn’t care less what depths they are regarded from.