High rings & harm

by Si Transken


It’s not funny. It’s tragically absurd.

Ugly as an incurable ill that intermittently

recedes below the skin. The sores stop seeping.

It camouflages itself  as non-contagious.

You know you’re old when you’ve sat on

more than a 100 hiring committees – from feminist

grassroots non-profits to hiring committees

for org.coms with planes of snow men in suits.

Usually the hired person has an inside track

to the ear of someone already who knows

someone who is sleeping with someone or

the son or daughter of a someone.

Sometimes the most wrong candidate is chosen.

Appointed because they’re the least disliked, 

minimally offensive  – rather than

that they’re the most skill endowed.

My molars are worn from all the grinding.

Or the person with the obviously

politically correct & stacked disadvantages

gets the position. Stats improve.

No structural or organization change.

Someones make each other shine

& multiply. They fortify each other’s

fortresses. Nudge, nudge, wink, wink.

Everyone’s invited to a barbeque.

Church & club members are keenest

to reproduce their own while being

butter slimy & honey honey sweet

about honesty & transparent process.

I know I’m old because I care only

passingly these days. I see the slides & slithers

of power under the enunciations, behind

the doors, through dozens of disguises.

My eyes hurt from watching all this.

Aware. Aching with ridiculous impotency

I see the lean of the hiring panel into following the

leader who is  the whitest, most Big Daddy,

heterosexual, healthy unflawed body …

Recycle the old boy’s networks.

Now with a Sarah Palin/ Margaret Thatcher, Queen Bee,

Cheerleader girl, handmaiden casting with the boys.

Or a token beige boy’s allowed to pretend to lead.

Old tricks. Old codes. An old dog

I pull my unremarkable tail between my slow legs

with shame for being in the same room –

unable to bark. Or even shit on their shoes.