Reflections on Work as a “Typist”

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It is as if Kafka’s bureaucrats

  have multiplied in

            carbon copies and

Xerox copies to cover the

  earth with layers of

            memos, correspondence

              and alphabetical archives—

People in rows pushing

  keys, keys of adding machines,

            typing machines, keypunch machines,

              soon to be replaced by machines

Clinging to fragile

  existence in face of

            this awful reality—

Their presence that something,

  yes, something even something

            important is accomplished with

              color coded pen marks

                        and form separation

So they continue fondling

  fountain pens

Their digits ticking off

  digits

Endlessly plunging into pits

  of paper clips to

            punctuate the

              madness of it all.

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