creating abundance, Elaine Stirling, embracing lucre, humor, Law of Attraction, narrative poetry, new business paradigms, parody, T.S. Eliot, the brave new business leader, The Corporate Storyteller, The Love-Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, Toronto Stock Exchange, TSE, Warren Buffett, Wharton School of Business
What brings you here?
What waylaid cab or MapQuest
err has led you to this tower high
with view at King and Bay
this dreary hour of eleven past
seventeen 00, while offices pour
thousands to the streets and
subterranea with glazed eye,
still gripping as if life depended
on the presence of a phone
that starts with i?
Tedious arguments, Sir,
of insidious intent.
Aah, I see, you paraphrase
beloved TSE. I display his works
there by the window overlooking TSE,
the other, Stock Exchange of Toronto,
proving rocks of different kind. You
wince; my jesting preys upon your
indigestion. Well, to quote the Hoover
that my mother loved, suck it up. You’re
here in search of better arguments and
new, so let us take the tour, just you
and me, not of this tower but of
your sacred inhibitions.
May I call you Al?
I see you in this photo in a suit
and striped tie in Omaha, imbibing
words of my good friend who’s Buffetted
with skill the storms of dollars’ rise and fall.
At least I think it’s you, it’s hard to tell,
you’ve dressed with such conformity
while Nature at her wealthiest prefers—
in fact, she’ll single out and rise
to highest tiers unique.
I read your rants
your psychopants on taxes
and the need to stop the greed,
but I say, friend, to let your wanting
grow and grow—don’t choke it off, for
laws there are far greater than the imitative
creeds of man, and wary be of how you cast
your eye, for if it’s poverty you seek for others,
their collapse, then dearth will wind its way to
you, encapturing with bitter moods while
Providence who seeks to give you all finds
her way blocked—and there she’ll stop
to trim the roses and her nails until
to higher senses you return.
Nothing in this world but will is free;
the price you charge for others to abide
your lacerating words is larceny, and those
who would subserve have misplaced theirs
and taken up the cause of mental slavery. You
would not own a slave now, would you, Al?
What have we here? Your poetry,
your art, portfolios you’ve built with care
and love and yearn to see fine-bound in cloth,
and hung on walls in public galleries. For these
fine things to happen you need me, a patron,
gladsome benefactor with the wherewithal
and dollars to proceed, that you might have
the comfort and security to clamber past
the shopworn themes of loss and insufficiency,
on whom so many to their detriment agree.
The bartering of “I’ll read you, if you read
me” gives off a quaint and pleasant smell, and
yes, exchange lies at the root of all that Mercury
delivers with his winged quicksilver shoes, but
grassy roots absent of profit hide the noxious seeds
of envy, and you’ll find in all the givey-givey that
there’s more of take and kill of spirit than many
will admit—these forms invisible create the tediums,
insidious intents that build the twisted corporate
towers upon whose flimsy walls resentment
like a gnarly, poisoned ivy grows.
If happy and successful you would make the world,
Al Low, then be so for yourself, allow it, give no time
or space to what you do not like, for only by attention
to the positive we multiply, to misery divide.
Look at the time, and where we are! Is this your
gangplank? Very nice. A little bouncy at the end
here. I’ve not much time to tell you what remains
of what I learned to get me to the pinnacle by means
of which I effortlessly grow the more and more. So
let’s get to the point. It’s in the J-O-Y—oops!
Sorry, Al, I didn’t mean to fling my arms
so open wide. You do know how to swim, right?
Gotta run, plane to catch. What’s that? I can’t hear
you through the bubbles. Yes, indeed, something
big, dark and pointy is bearing down upon you
with great speed. I believe it is your ship.
© Elaine Stirling, 2013