Good men are slaves
to a system
that has them
trying to stay strong,
trying to pay rent,
to feed moms,
and their children.

They do the wrong thing
because they need money
for food, cloths, shelter
for car insurance,
for maintenance, and
for medical emergencies.

So, the goodness,
We would like to see
gets buries out of
necessity.

Kind hands
become calloused tools
and the hardworking man
dies at the plant,
were other good men
are struggling the same
with some minor variations.

He smokes. Lips pull thin white clouds of relief into his lungs but when he is done he will head back in to the dark den of machine men. There used to be better days. Now strange alchemy has turned his soft body hard, smooth skin wrinkled, white teeth cracked and yellow, and soul into a mutilated mess. The fence vibrates with his passing frustration as one foot cracks the corner. Would have been a ****** mess if not for the tight steel toed shoes, that add about half a pound a piece. His fatigue weighs so much more. A heaviness stops him at the door. It is like he is walking in a world of gravity set at twice the normal rate. Safety goggles, lunch lady hair net, and ear plugs have become his nighttime uniforms.
“Five hours and twenty-three minutes to go.” He recites like Dustin Hoffman’s rain man.
The mechanical madness beckons him in with a thud da dud, thud da dud, thud da dud.
“At least it is a midnight shift and not a hot summer day shift.” He thinks as he shrugs off the last remnants of his reservations.

Weird yellow lines mark
the grey sparkling floor.
Lighter grey garage doors
roll open to export more
manufactured goods.

Plastic particulates
plaster the yellow painted
blocking fences that
keeps fumbling fools
from stumbling through.

Yellow metal monstrosities
powered by small black batteries
chase their own blue lights
seeming super sentient
with an electric consciousness.
They beep hard backing up
and plowing forward
with packed boxes of
clear plastic cups
coming from the factory floor.

Smokers come and go
in and out of
the glass double door
in a blur of blue hats
lunch lady hairnets
earplugs and safety glasses
ending the day
exhausted and underpaid.

Do not buy for one second that donations from unions are an equal evil to donations from corporations.

Why demonize the collective efforts to own and regulate one's own labor?

Why respect those that call another's labor their own private property, to the extent they enforce this rule through the tax subsidized violence monopoly?



Never forget where we came from.

It is a metallic mountainous monstrous beast
fed on the flesh of the subdued worker class.
Weary eyed figures form a line for work time.
Strangled masses stumble in starving for relaxation.
Tension tightens their tired bodies and stripped bolts.
Work men’s muscles stretched and torn to their limits
only allowed to recover on the weekends.
Red eyes and amp energy drinks don’t stop the draining.
Machine metal bites furiously smoking sore bodies.
Steam and heat cook the workers till they are tender,
and with one exhausted misstep flesh and bone
Are consumed; blood and gore paint the assembly line.
The whistle blows, production stops.
the hunger is sated, and the factory slumbers.

Corporations **** the core
Cuts the soul to ribbons
Takes all the labor
And pays back in paltry paychecks
That barely covers our debts
Whilst doling out pain and exhaustion

But the people are good
Hardworking and smiling
Straining to maintain
That spark of heart
That remains
While paying their bills
And feeding their family

The shift starts
And tired bodies
Stumble in
Factory already
Rumbling
Like last night’s thunder
People laughing and chatting

Lebanese dude calls me Habibie
Grinning and patting me on the back
Brown brother give me a knuckle bust
As he passes by with a playful gleam in his eyes
One guy doesn’t high five but bumps elbows
The Congo girls speak another language
Beautiful flowing and musically rhythmical
The Janitor sings Motown
In this factory town these are good people

The generators hum
The machine sings
Doing their thing
Hoses circulate water
Like life’s blood
Taking in the heat
And sending it away
Bringing back more cool water
That does the same
Cooling the loud and hot equipment

While the employees are stressed and sweating
Wearing muscle fatigue and sleep deprivation
Like it’s their second skin

The machines drums ch, ch, crack
Ch, ch crack like a musical number

While the workers hustle
A smoke break and a popsicle
Then back to work
A lunch break and a conversation
Then back to work
Last smoke break and a phone call
Then back to work
Leaving the factory body hurting
But still coming off
The assembly line a good person

Her body, tired.
Her limbs, overworked.
Her baby, forever wailing.

Laying bricks around,
That's who she is.
The little lady,
Who puts houses together
But couldn't build her own life.
That's who she is,
Forced to survive,
Forced to be something
That she was never born to become.

She goes to sleep after washing off the dust,
That she knows will collect in the same places tomorrow
And the day after that,
And the day after that,
And the lifetime after that.

Laying down the concrete,
That's who she is.
The old young lady,
Who mixes cement for a living
But couldn't glue her life back together.

These hands have done it all
They're tough as wire rope
They've fought to defend freedom
They've carried flags of hope

They've wiped away the salty tears
Of a mother, full of pride
They've folded up our nations flag
For a son, with honor, died

They've held a newborn really close
They've birthed a newborn calf
They've taken down a hundred men
And a hundred more, by half

These hands don't represent me
But, these hands have done it all
They've done eight seconds on a bull
And they've broken through a wall

These hands are soft as leather
And as hard as Georgia Clay
What they did so long before
They can not do today

These hand are all arthritic
Crippled up, and full of pain
But,you know these hands would love just once
To grab that rope again

These hands are full of memories
Built for strength, and not for speed
These hands are built to hold you
Even now, that's all I need

These hands, they tell my story
My life, is in these hands
I don't look at them as crippled
I just look and think....These Hands....

Forever neglected
Forever dismayed
Forever deafened
By the cacophony of the trade

The antiquated digger stands by
A sentient guard of the worker
It watches as the tree slowly dissipates
Its life slowly crumbling
As the voracious chipper
Devours the tree whole

The worker stands by
The digger stands by
The chipper chips away

The taciturn worker remains
Ruminating the existence of the world.
Why was he put here?
For what reason must he stay with these hallowed construction tools?
Do they feel any remorse for the change that they've enacted
On the world around them?
Are they aware that they transgress the laws of nature?

The bellicose chipper
Wages war with nature
As the people watch so distantly.
Its sound makes the neighbors quite belligerent
Yet the zealots watch attentively.
The pure ignorance
The pure neglect
The blatant apathy
Is something to be seen.

Whatever could possess you
To follow in the footsteps of the worker
To feel his pain as the trimmer
Chips away at the trees' centuries
The sound of shattered glass
Punctuates the air.
Perhaps there has been an accident.

Miss Elliot is not just a single mom

Miss Elliot is not just white trash

Because Miss Elliot must stay calm

In the lunchroom, though she grins wide, she’ll crash


In the West End High lunchroom peak hour

Miss Elliot, our warrior stands strong

"You ugly white trash," they scream at the door

But she keeps quiet, she won't yell you're wrong


At home, she has a little one to watch

She packs her bag, cleans off her recipe

She claws in her mind for hope hard to catch

As she quietly gives us a whisper



"So what will it be

Chris, Molly, Rudy?"