the killing floor

stack of bills before me, ashtray on the side,
patty griffin preachin' through the radio,
helpin' me solve the riddles of life.

i keep trying to remind myself of what happened last time,
when, under duress, i set equal exchange aside.
though i fretted about betraying vocation in the service of occupation,
things turned out just fine.

but still, i sit here moping, asking God why
he has the gall to provide me with full benefits,
three weeks floating vacation
and a more secure bottom line.

"not everyone gets to do what they want" she says,
to which i answer, "fine."
God can fail to sponsor other's vocation,
but he better not fuck with mine.

underneath the static, i can hear him whisperin',
"i'm sanctifying you in the midst of routine maintenance,
tea time and every new product description.

why do you insist on separating sacred from secular,
when, in the end, there is no such line?
step into you cubicle, jeffrey.
sit down, receive the sacrament one more time."