warehouser

sitting here and
nothing but the screen
and breezes separate me
from the road and them
me at the portal
module mechanism

cold this Memorial day
as they came and went
and Friday night rocked my
sock hop

i hear an occasional
toot from a horn
or an explicative from
one who had to piss when
the column moved slowly
now he’s left in the bush
and i laugh, i laugh
and i laugh because they
are going home and
i am not

we all have jobs
and none like them
more i guess
but i sit content
with coffee going in
as they creep by
and I can see the hands in
faces
hung-over heads and
sunburned shoulders
that will be spoken of and
showed off around
the water cooler
the blood bank
the clinics and the
quarries
and i just sit and bang
about them as like a spring tide
they retreat now
leaving the carnival
not smooth but busy with
deadbeats broom pushers and
technicians like me
getting the wiring ready for the
flood that will arrive later

i laugh again
probably no surely
because once they have all gone
and taken with them
the stress of tomorrow
the anticipation of
readjusting to reality
the job and the wife
the girlfriend boyfriend dog
the garden music flower table
money metal soul and vehicle of
hylozoist effect subconscious
i will have my warehouse and my
thousands of price tags stickers
magnets toys boxes bins and
lists leaving me feeling broken and
like an elf at lying time;
i will stand there at a
table and listen to the voices around me
the characters
the utterances of
nigger and polack and
“who the fuck is gonna knock me out?”
and then a “no, not you, i said who is gonna knock me out, you ain’t
big enough to knock me out”

-but i won’t have the anxiety
of the mundane replacing
the week of paradise
extraction/distraction
and i won’t have any of them in my way on Monday.
-just my table, my lists
the voices and my stickers,
and a signed promise not
to deviate from my natural
hair colour.