Imagine the conflictual aesthetic that might arise out of being downsized from what essentially amounts to a dead-end job you don't find particularly meaningful. One day at work you begin to e-mail yourself nasty little messages that accumulate into poems containing all sorts of things you wish you could say, but can't. The only outlet you have is the poem, and you understand how unfortunate that is, how useless it is, but that's all you have. And then one day you go into work and it's your last day, and you shake your employer's hand good-bye, and you leave. And that's it. All you have left are your poems.