"forklift" poems
I'm feeling kinda hollow,
It's a little hard to swallow.
Still Im in the lead,
So everybody follows.
Hate it all you want though,
There's no time to wallow.
tell me what you need,
You just found that ****
Waldo.
I don't even buy blow.
I just ****** snort it,
Gatta cop it from the *****
That always seem to hoard it.
know they can't afford it.
I Wonder how they scored it.
Then I took four hits,
Got drunk and stole a forklift.
I don't give a horse ****
I just want some more ****
Got weird for a
few days,
Brain fried till my
eyes glazed
Smoked a little
more haze,
Screamed **** the pigs ,
Got tazed
strapped on my rollerblades,
And streaked out,
the VMA's
I don't give a ****
Like a ******* Atheist
don't believe in luck,
Call me the ******* catalyst.
Jun 23, 2014
Jun 23, 2014 at 3:14 AM UTC
*My thanks to the store clerk working the midnight shift
God bless the dishwashers at local restaurants laboring for minuscule pay
To the forklift operators moving freight for hours on end ,
to cleaning crews preparing offices for another day
For the plumber protecting health in the wee hours of
the morn
For sanitation workers hard at work well before dawn*
Apr 24, 2016
Apr 24, 2016 at 10:37 PM UTC
They taught you to eat corn,
They fed you hormones
And you grew faster
Than you were ever meant to.
Your bones, your muscles, your sinews
Strained under your strange girth,
You collapsed to the ground
Amidst a pile of your own filth.
The others wailed around you,
Mile after mile of confused beasts,
Suffering,
Completely disoriented,
Completely terrified.
You all will feed the world,
The billions waiting
For your mashed and grinded flesh.
And what is your reward?
When finally your bones
Snapped underneath your immense bulk,
The men came
Prodding you with a forklift,
They laughed as you rolled
In the utmost agony,
Bleating for mercy of compassion.
It was not their fault,
They were only doing
What the system demanded
Of them.
They carried you off
And spilled your life blood
Openly onto a dark factory floor,
Hoisted you up,
Stripped you naked
Of your skin,
Tearing at your carcass
And sent you off
To the supermarkets
Where you were welcomed
As a shrink-wrapped addition
To the shelves.
Oct 14, 2011
Oct 14, 2011 at 12:29 AM UTC
Every morning good Damocles wakes up
And after breakfast from a drive-through bag
Salutes the time-clock with a merry ding
From a little card that records his time
He drives his forklift or his cubby-desk
And sorts each pallet or computer code
Into their places in the secular scheme
The minor chain of being more-or-less
Until a meeting when, and with great sorrow,
A Suit tells all, “we’re shutting down tomorrow.
Oh, the company still exists (and what could be finer?),
But we’re sending all your jobs away to China.”
Nov 20, 2018
Nov 20, 2018 at 3:09 PM UTC
This is the tale
of wild hair McGee
affectionatly known
to some as Scotty
Zipping around
the airport with glee
in his big yellow forklift
writing poetry
Many have wondered
how his name came to be
it was hung on his back
by his boss Jeffery
Dumping the bins
in his faithful steed
a machine that is known
as ol' smokey
If you want to judge
the course of the day
just take off his helmet
his hair would then say
A little to the left
no patience left
a little to the right
stayed up late last night
If standing up Straight
you might have to wait
all to the back
your the bottom of the stack
Don't take it personal
it;s not meant to be
all in a days work
for wild hair McGee
Jun 10, 2013
Jun 10, 2013 at 6:43 AM UTC
The cloud’s sweat mists
Foggy moon breaking the night
Stars are like evening sprinkles
And in the sweltering heat
The factory repeats
Its strange and haunting beats
The dusty machines spit hot air
Metal grinds metal, the forklifts beeps
The sound barely startles me
Out of my space daydreams
My oddly color ear buds
Making me dull of hearing
A guy speaks at me seeking humanity
Lonely, widower he needs some connection
Fourteen year and tumors will see
His dog finally has to go to sleep
He says he needs another puppy
Offers up skewed observations
About our American nation
I am disturbed but I can see
His heart is in the right place
As he places his thoughts before me
Loves his music but I can’t help but worry
That when I leave he will cease to be
Becoming merely a memory
Echoing ghostly
Cause he is so lonely
Jan 1, 2016
Jan 1, 2016 at 8:01 PM UTC
The poplar tree blooms no more,
The magpie sings no new songs,
Yet I cling onto the restless years,
When you, my dear, were still here.
Remember the wind that took your hat,
And a gentleman I was retrieving it back?
Our eyes destined for the first time,
& now I long so for that beautiful eyes.
Merry it was our days in your kitchen!
Pots and pans we sang & dance!
Our feet tangled not on the carpet of red,
Our hands twine like a morning glory on a fence.
Such days are but a memory,
As I live to sit on the chair alone,
Remember not the day of judgement,
For my heart aches and sores for you.
My dear, how long should I wait,
Wait for another meeting of our fate,
The piano has no fingers to await,
For the only fingers to await was you.
Winter comes soundlessly still,
As your hands appeared in mine.
I smiled and forklift my cane,
& now the chair is left alone.
"Olivia, is that you?"
Aug 20, 2015
Aug 20, 2015 at 9:38 AM UTC
The guys from the demolishing
Team accidently broke a door
In the basement.
Things happen, but this door was
From the original building; built
In 1920. Covering it in bubble wrap
And writing HANDLE WITH CARE
All over it didn't help. The
Lithuanians were in a hurry;
No match for a speeding BobCat.
I carried the corpse out to the
Container, and thought to myself:
*I'm gonna be the last man to ever
Knock on this *******
I set it down (the oak thing was a
Good 95 years old), and wrote
On it in my finest lettering.
Chamber.
Took off my glove and stood there,
Gently rapping, calling out to
The guys by the forklift:
HEY! Name the bird, boys!
No response. Sometimes I feel like
I might not belong in construction.
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 9:13 AM UTC
My fortitude is formed with the force of Brutus' crooked dagger in my back,
These fictional factualities ferment my mentality and thats a fact,
However I refuse to forfeit,
For I am fighting external forces with this existential forklift,
Uplifting my energy, channeling my inner G ,
When I step I centipede then with this the pen I bleed,
Think it's all a process of auto-biology,
I'm always overthinking- in need of an auto-lobotomy,
I'm the hero and the villian in my autobiography,
So its a automatic mutiny for this auto-autonomy,
It's self righteous how felt this self fight us,
It's shelf life is kelp like but felt like years ,
They say that legends never die,
Oh this lonely hell of mine,
The look of death ever present on my absent mind,
Long-winded, but these spurts of happiness are short-lived,
**** bingeing , cups overflowing with beer,
My thoughts Tinted, heavy drinking till I'm light-headed,
I don't eat or get sleep ,
Steady thinking, "where's my life headed??"
Need to stop running my mouth,
Too busy tryin to exercise these demons,
I keep pushing my luck, and im exhausted from this heaving,
Heavy breathing , and sold separately are these hellish hiccups,
My nightmare begind every mornin when I sit up...
Oct 17, 2023
Oct 17, 2023 at 9:34 AM UTC
you can’t take the wire out of the lamb.
when I look you in the eye
I feel my brain
is cared for
under the seat
of a snowed-on
forklift.
to get my son’s attention
I tap with a spoon
on the glass circle
of a running
dryer’s
door.
my son is of course
hungry but in the meat
of a difficult
book.
the night is never young.
to read the book
is to believe
one can see
blood with blood.
at times my father
in the middle of my dream
sits on a riding mower
as if it’s a boat
he dragged
without help
over the parts of this land
feared
by glacier.
part of my body is sad.
Oct 15, 2013
Oct 15, 2013 at 10:27 PM UTC
there are nights where your absence chokes out my breath
and the only way i can finally rest
is to heavy-handedly pull at the tides of my brew
the way you'd paw at the hips of my skirt
silently signaling you'd finally had too much to drink
your lack of grace illuminated
in whiskey-breath
and neon jukebox glow
so off we'd go
leading the liqour-lust parade
trailing downpours of drink chips in our wake
and you'd take up my hand
in your forklift phalanges
such a prideful little man-cub
with a puffed out chest and a leather vest
only softening your edges in the sanctity of my lumpy bed
when you've got the chance to rest your noisy head atop my naked breast
oh you rusted demi-god
though i do miss the struggle
and the snuggles
and the ***
i'll be just fine with my growler of stout
and your leftover whiskey in the freezer
forgetting what i'd learn
during our staggered steps home
Mar 11, 2014
Mar 11, 2014 at 2:54 AM UTC
Slithering through life
Wearing a botched face lift
Head held down
Face shielded by hands
You aspired to be a model
Now you drive your forklift
The uppers get you though
You like it but not the fumes
A wife beater shows tattoos
Colourful meaningful
Filled with the shadings in life
Scars on the backs of your hands
Thick fingers wrapped around a shot
Make it a double, no, two, to wind down
You walk to the mirror and look
Tears fall lightly, you want something more
What tells us we can't, is 'us'
Resolve to make your mark
Step out of the dark take your stance
Push that fear aside and don't look back
Feb 6, 2015
Feb 6, 2015 at 7:23 PM UTC
Minimum wage men
With
$200 dollar shoes
And minimum wage women
Expecting $300 bags
From them.
I remember telling my last girlfriend
"WELL...SHIT!... YOU SAID WE WEREN'T GOING TO BUY EACH OTHER ANYTHING FOR CHRISTMAS! WHY'D YOU BUY ME THIS!!"
she cried
And on the
26th
I bought her a crystal
Necklace on twine
From a Mexican swapmeet
And ice cream
Sandwiches.
I mouth off so much at work
All day
Sometimes
I think I'm
Trying
To get canned.
The higher ups seem
Entertained by it.
I've seen the guys
That sweat
Panic
And dream of sales
Get fired.
While I stand in the bathroom
Writing poems.
I do feel bad about
Not putting effort
Into
IT.
But
I figure...
There are more
Humane traps
Out there.
Dec 29, 2015
Dec 29, 2015 at 10:52 PM UTC
She tells me to take things more seriously
or else no one will take me seriously.
I say, seriously?
An intervention?
She says no, no, nothing like that,
sitting in front of a banner bearing the words
INTERVENTION!!! with three
gaudy exclamations points, just like that.
god, how haven't you learned yet
to fix all your problems?
you forklift your issues, and in addition, you put on a front!
yes, all right, all right, but we’ve all got our goblins.
Not to mention your addictions - furthermore, your predelictions towards -
yes, all RIGHT, i know you’re right, but frankly, you’re a *****
the banner flutters
to the floor.
Dec 19, 2018
Dec 19, 2018 at 5:11 PM UTC
take or take
6pm
having just
gotten
glasses
I left
father’s
body mirror
to mother
and comb
and set off
for the aptly
named
Hill
armed with
a science book
and shielded
by my own
oblivion
and there
every bit
white
as weary
I sat
as I thought
would sit
the black man
I so wanted
to be
with British
accent
and there
a sanely placed
forklift
seemed okay
abandoned
oh
that I saw
a too strong woman
hop down
her wrongness
a nothing
though from
I ran
Apr 4, 2014
Apr 4, 2014 at 12:26 AM UTC
Within
The moon hits the tree
in such a way
that it's easy to forget
the height;
the ultimate suspension:
eighty feet up
in a harmonic slumber
resting only
on the closest thing
I've found to God:
a single organism
on which two
(or maybe three
now?)
men can rest
and gaze upwards
at the shockingly
finite dance
of the leaves
and the stars--
all the while,
listening to the chorus
of the frogs, owls, coyotes
of the woods around
Without
After spending a night
without the comforts
of modern man,
in a little green dot
on man's map,
boxed in on all sides,
I emerged
from the forest
to find a man
in a forklift
with a saw--
and at first it seemed
as if he might just
be trimming the branches
but then
the tree fell,
and like man
and his little green boxes,
product of a continually
diminishing temper,
a yard
(or perhaps
a map?)
was left barren
Aug 17, 2013
Aug 17, 2013 at 4:01 PM UTC
You danced on the parquet floor,
In my head after dinner,
In reality you just sat,
And talked until the slowing of the spinner
You were close enough for me to feel,
Your aura bouncing between our skin,
But not close enough to feel,
The feelings contained therein
The stars, have their shine,
Overshadowed by the streetlights,
The lorries and forklift trucks,
Have stopped their engines in the twilight,
The reverse signal blares into the morning,
It's going the reverse of time and this is our forewarning,
And I think about how last night,
Didn’t end how I imagined when I read the invite,
Because sure I had a good time,
But it all ended so abruptly when the bell chimed
And I’ve tied, up my shoes,
And I’m walking to the bus stop
Another day of work,
And my life is still a junk shop
And I sit here writing words,
In between calls about trees,
As the answer to my questions,
Floats somewhere outside in the breeze
Jun 14, 2019
Jun 14, 2019 at 4:00 AM UTC
When falling into a Hero Trap
always bring your First Officer.
Nuke some backwards Aliens
and you can be sure they will
get back at you with a vengeance.
Forest moons
are made for Death Games.
Bloodshed and deprivation
belong in front of the cameras.
Technology is for tyranny
and ***** princesses look best
in blood red bodices
when they interview perimeter guards.
You Will Marvel
at the spectacle
of a ****** a badass, a chubster
and a gunface
storming the set
with flint napped spears
and a hijacked hover-camera.
Sit in spinning Jenny,
and pass me the crisps.
You touched the cone,
and Enhanced women know,
York is hot.
Somebody get the forklift,
the Biggun is down,
and the fraggin' BBC wouldn't know
a solid gold classic
if it crashlanded in their laps.
Some say he put on all the weight
after it was cancelled.
At least we got some Hot Fuzz,
and the only good Zombie comedy...
Ever.
Artefacts were made to be forgotten.
But I wont fall into that trap!
Apr 2, 2017
Apr 2, 2017 at 9:25 PM UTC
Foot
long
toenails
one hundred year old whales
Can't
find the vein
a junkies old refrain
Lost
in the music
of the street
The hiss
of rubber on the road
a sustained
lullaby
The reeds the reeds
blow those reeds
Plant seeds plant seeds
plant those seeds
Water them well
from
An ancient well
with spiked punch
And German sausages
so big that to get them up
you need a forklift
You heard by now
there's no depending on me
when it comes down to the crunch
but.... **** end of the joke so
Keep on keeping on
stretching out those legs
If not to
just walk
around the block
Feb 24, 2016
Feb 24, 2016 at 12:43 PM UTC
A bored board waits in the sun
doing its best to seep sap
in an attempt at levity
for when the beer-bellied
red-faced
foreman
comes ‘round to gather materials
he will be coated in tar –
four inches wide and 12 feet long
the bored board waits for the crow
daily this magnificent bird
gently lights on the edge
leaving a special present for anyone
not paying attention when they round the corner –
cut from a mighty elm, the bored board
listens
to the sounds of beeping when the forklift backs up
the soft wind breezing through the skeleton
muffled yelling from the plumbers, deep beneath the foundation
and the constant hollering of that despicable man in charge –
the bored board picks its moment
as the hostile crew boss passes
witnessing the smear of crow ****
and a handful of pitch
a deep feeling of satisfaction
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 10:54 AM UTC
Alas. Absolutely NOTHING is inspiring.
(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCLIII)
Firs hang their boughs in silence as in pale
Excuse it looks like some big snowman thence
Erm, toppled by whom, eh? lies headless hence
Upon the "island's" rim cuz oh, t'avail
Last weekend some tried to move snow sans bail,
As la, his forklift needed to fr'intents
Be wrestled from captiv'ty, as for sense
The icy pile swore it would NOT move, hale.
Now as a fragile touch of pink'd bestir
Itself to trick out blank racks 'cross the view,
Likeas a chalkboard blushing faintly fer
Effect, what drives me to complain? Naught woo.
Nor have I watched aught movies. What, as twere,
Culls this dull sense that nary joys now cue?
07Mar19c
Mar 9, 2019
Mar 9, 2019 at 10:07 PM UTC
I am from the apartments, from sharing a room and living cramped
I am from the loud arguments, the bitter taste in my mouth
I am from the cactus, its’ prickly thorns attached
the dark rose, its’ petals slowly wilting
I am from eating dinner together and a loud volume
From John and Sonia and Gloria
I am from the stress and expectations
From not letting it get to you and ignoring it
I am from self taught Christianity, and talks with God at night
I’m from Portugal, Venezuela, and Columbia
Cheese Bread and Empanadas
From the forklift accident, the recovery, and the epileptic Grandma
I am from the strength of the women in my family
I am from the stacks of paperwork
I am from a course of self-discovery and awareness
I am from the first generations journey to succes
Aug 27, 2023
Aug 27, 2023 at 11:34 AM UTC
The weight of the last cinderblock
took its toll,
that one final heave,
hoist and offload
handballing the lot
from broken pallets
to flatbed's top
no forklift or barrow in sight
under weather made heavy
by breezeless skies.
Body's done,
hand's numb,
mind's dumb,
arms quiver through,
back aches from over missuse.
Fingers so stiff,
with a pen I cant write.
My thumbs are grumpy
through which I type.
Feeling old hitting my wall
which I have yet to build
gives me something to do tomorrow
if I make it till tonight.
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 7:45 AM UTC
The dream is large and
Hard to hug.
The work-a-days are long
And seem to get longer.
Heading home from work spent
On one of these days,
I see these words—
“Remember who you are”.
Remember who you are.
I, we, are:
Poets
Engineers
Architects
Scientists
Mathematicians
Entertainers,
Working the daily as:
Baristas
Bartenders
Forklift operators
Custodians
Truck drivers
Grocery store clerks—all noble
Honest posts, every one.
Daily I meander this mid-size burg
In a cranky van as a courier,
Acting as grease to lubricate
Said burg’s school district cogs.
I wonder…
I wonder how many work at these
Worthy and square occupations and
Either do not recognize or
Ignore the fire burning deepest
In their heart’s furnace.
I jaunt about remembering,
Always observing,
Always knowing the fire will
Spit out the next poem.
Remember who you are.
Remember it is a choice.
Dec 8, 2018
Dec 8, 2018 at 9:44 PM UTC
Living the dream with our trees and nips
I'm a number taking tokes in the break room
The old drunk working the forklift stares at my ****
While telling me babies love to be reminded of the womb
The vapid **** walks aimlessly, sipping her light and sweet
While the manager bites his tongue since she promised him head
So all of what's left is an extra treat
For the suckers who end up wishing they were dead
No ladders, no safety, no worry
Climb these unstable pallets and don't be sour
Because there's no greater glory
Than dying for $11.75 an hour
"But It's been 30 days without an accident" said Lisa
And because we kept our mouths shut, we're all getting pizza
Sep 8, 2017
Sep 8, 2017 at 7:01 AM UTC