To the powers that be - Corporate America:

Is this why I’m here right now -
rushing through a four-year government program
to achieve this pre-fabricated misconception of knowledge,
just so I can join your ranks and make money for the man?

Can you really exchange sweat and hard work for cash
and why is that not worth more than a computer skill
or the ability to boss people around?
I mean, I can read -
been reading at a high school level since the third grade -
and I can form ideas of my own
which is more than many can boast.

But I’ll keep at work, because that’s what’s expected of me.
Because if I can manage to work for 123 hours,
I will earn a manufacturer’s coupon
good for one white collar, knotted necktie, and a sense of American pride.
This one’s good for a paycheck of equal or lesser value of those above me -
whose collars are so white that they leave mine looking tinted blue.

No thank you, sir.
I’ll pass on five-figures (or six if I’m lucky)
and settle for figure eights.
Not rush hour figure eights -
where you’re either coming or going
and you’re always running late -
but my own kind.

Because the quest for knowledge doesn’t end with an embossed coupon,
or an elaborate wall-hanging,
framed and signed by a guy I never met by the name of Dean -
it just keeps going.
I’d rather think of my destiny in shapes of infinity -
figure eights.

So you can take your collars bleached
and keep the paycheck for yourself,
Corporate America.
I’m content with a moleskine and a pen,
a guitar to keep my hands from shaking,
and an unclouded head
to dream big dreams
and develop my own ideas.