i can't fathom how
there's overtime
for flat-heads
& some guys are
working 12-hour
days all week.
it's horrible:
all the fiberglass dust,
long strands of glass,
hot resin,
buckets of shit,
a 4' by 8'
press heated
by steam --
imagine it,
& add humidity,
stifling temperture
of approaching summer
in a concrete
windowless
prison
of employment.
oh the money's good.
that's a lot of extra
cash. but i can't
fathom how
they trudge thru
those back-breaking
hours
as hot oil
drips
on them.
i'm not saying
my job as a parts
operator is
easier or better,
but the flat-heads
are young gods.
if i did what they
do
i'd
be
dead.
damn dog
sometimes when bangles
realizes he's alone with the cat
in the house, i'm somewhere
while ann's at work,
he finds a tupperware lid
to chew up, or some
wool hat with plastic
buttons, food if we leave
something out.
not all the time,
other days he's just
a big black sleeping dog.
yesterday i go for
a few essentials
amid the crowd of
erie afternooners,
i must buy coffee
& onions & butter, more.
half an hour i'm gone.
i carry blue bags inside.
put things away.
dog seems fine.
then as i turn
up our stairs
i look into the front-room
where our old couch is
where bangles barks
at anyone who dares
walk up raspberry
street, he barks
at the window
there from his spot
on the couch --
i mean he can be
perfectly passive
with his chin propped
on the blue wood
window-ledge
snorting a fog
in disappearing
pulsations
on the glass,
he naps
or just watches
as cars go
by. the window
is shattered!
from the inside!
storm-window
is ok.
goddamn dog
must have gone
nuts seeing
another
dog or
something.
fuck,
i mutter,
picking shards
that resemble shapes
of all earth's
continents,
but sharper,
shattered like
everyone's
future. he knows
he fucked up.
i scream at him.
I'M GONNA KNOCK
YR FUCKIN'
HEAD
OFF! tho i don't.
quickie before work
cat-piss
cat-shit
cat-litter odor spreads
within concrete
cellar blocks
tho it's cooler
down here
musty
nicotine
coffee-fumes
dryer-sheets
skunk
i remember
bob grenier
telling the class
poetry has
biology
poetry is
sensory
but nobody
has yet
created
a poem for the nose
that was 1975
maybe someone has by now
perfume poem book?
i have sticks
of rose incense
9 hours from
now i'll be happier
i plan on doing
yardwork
after getting the old
jeep inspected
drink beers
under
a sky of fine pollen
& the city's dust
quickie after work
jeep inspection scheduled at noon.
there are other things to do,
but whether before the inspection
or after is up in the air at this
point. i'm drinking a coffee,
even dropped a sugar-cube
in it, but i'm still exhausted
after another fucked up
night of inane bullishness
in heavy heat & fiberglass.
almost split at lunch.
this is a real test of my patience
i tell the boss.
see, & you're winning ron.
why the fuck am i frowning
then? i think as he steps
off the platform
smiling.
all the zenfulness
in this universe
can't calm fucked
up insert holders
that keep breaking
apart. but i stay.
i stay & persevere
against the zillions
of odds & reasons
to leave. i'm happier
now, home, showered,
dressed. a 40-hour
paycheck next week
in the bag.
shld i nap a couple hours?
there's that yardwork
i plan to accomplish
after the jeep's new sticker
& securing a case
of beer. there's that,
& maybe i'll say
fuck the world,
fuck yardwork,
fuck factory echoes.
maybe i'll
try for
simple
peacefulness,
do nothing
but guzzle
for as long as
i stay
awake in this
daylight.
buzzed before ann gets home from work
i did all the shit.
jeep inspection,
including new erie
county emission test,
more fucking money
for whoever the fuck
gets it -- deposited
ann's check at the credit
union, kept cash
to purchase an electric
weed-whacker at
value city hardware.
stopped for cat-food.
stopped for beer.
guzzled one before
weed-whacking.
have guzzled three
& all the grass is cut,
& ann has just
opened our back-door.
fuck it
it's a goddamn cacaphony of
activity outside, middle 60's,
bright -- neighbors mowing
lawns, planting flowers, knocking
up a picnic table in a backyard,
hoses splash over rainbow-color'd
cars & trucks & suvs.
raspberry street is busy
traffic, people drive up
& down. boom music.
basketball bouncing
in echoes of our paved
alley. dogs bark like
yelping idiots
at anything. cats sun
themselves on long
2nd story windowsills.
i'm in our toolroom
cellar drinking
coffee,
smoking cigarettes,
writing this
description
of now, today,
in the middle of
afternoon.
down in a cellar
seems the most
plausible place
a poet shld
be.
ron androla
read up
click to view movie/poem - eggs