slavery never was intended to be pretty

todays poem is another from 4-93. the poem sort of reflects the mental state of becoming a pawn for another mega-company. slavery never was intended to be pretty, i don't think.

nothing new from the Day 1 realm. Just waiting around, dealing with a lot of nervous managers and uncertainty about just about every sort of detail. Lots of paperwork to be presented, and some obvious changes, like a new employee number. Pretty mundane stuff so far. Too bad the jobs won't be upgraded and all. These bones are really telling me they dislike working on the winder anymore. Ah, poor old bones. There ain't no relief anytime soon.

Summer continues. Pretty nice days lately. Not extremely hot, and actually cool in the mornings. Not like autumn and those wonderful rains, but not too terrible.


I TELLS YOU, POOR OLD HENRY

i tells you, poor old henry, busted shoes & socks wet as a river.
sing boohoo for idealism. weez just footprints in sand again.
but visions aint my cup o tea, i whispers, blinded by lights of my own desperations.
no sugar in my bed. no hot chocolate in my sack. just torn pages
i have failed to read. fantasies die cruel-like in this world i knows.

i tells you, god was born a mean bastard, sucking on hard tits
of disillusionment. he bites like dogs in heat when it feels a hurt.
poor old henry, sore & bleeding. no knee pads in his arsenal of dreams.
drinking hard liquors of damnation. sober aint bliss, he weeps.
god, like a pimp, selling pleasures for prices of slavery.

not much info on Day-1

4-93 brings us today’s poem.

Not much new on the DAY-1 info. Really all we are doing is getting bits and pieces of very minor information (such as how to direct deposit your pay-check once IP takes over), but nothing of significance, at least from my point of view. I think most of the work and effort is being done on the electronic and computer stuff, so it will integrate seamlessly. People are a lot more pliable it seems.

Other than that - just damned hot. Summer is certain making itself evident. It’s back on night shift tomorrow night, which states the rather obvious, not any updates until I get some more time off. No overtime I can see for the coming rotation, but a whole load of it after that. Booo and hiss!!



YAWNING GREY SEAS NEVER DID NOTICE

1 yawning grey seas never did notice. eternity in your eyes for the right questions. broken winged gulls conversing with the ambassadors of death. the winds of november in dialog with your hair.
2 forests wept & iris bloomed. pathways into primal dream where jays conversed in the language of rilke. only we were the unknowing.
3 apple blossoms upon the river. hearts that never did learn the perfect dialog of love. where lizards sunned themselves inconspicuously.
4 i have become the curse you sighed. thick fog absorbed the word & i walked into the darkness to become that which was undesired.

ground control to Major Tom

Today’s poem is from 11:93. No I haven’t fallen off the face of the planet, just been on night shift, with a load of overtime … so the updates tend to be few and far between when that happens.

Speaking of updates - mailed my “retirement” packet off to Vanguard, so when “Day 1” arrives, I should have that issue taken care of. Still can’t retire of the amount I am being “given”, but it won’t hurt to get it invested and maybe working to make a little money. (Well, maybe not in the economics of Wall Street right now!) The union finally called a meeting on our retirement “rights”, of course, that was 4 days after I mailed my packet, and coming off night shift with overtime, I sort of just skipped that fiasco of a meeting. Lots of rumors about what will and will not be changed under the IP regime. I suspect some of it will come to pass, but picking which ones is probably like trying to pick lottery numbers at this point.

Very warm here in the Pacific Northwest this week. Summer is certainly here. boooo! i still prefer autumn and the cool rains.

Onto the poetry….



POEM FOR ROBIN A.

1
Avenues in which shadows live -
listening to the echoes of mission bells -
cobblestones & perfect for pictures
(except the lighting):
trashcan hearts laughing at nothing:
i walk as if a saint seeking for canonization.

The rocks of disenchantment are before you.
Gulls dance in an awkward breeze
& serpents speak with an eloquent lisp.
No one comes here to die intentionally -
rather to gaze upon the disgusted & disgusting,
then to pass onto higher plains, at least spiritually.

No one comes here to die intentionally,
but it is here the dead congregate -
vile & angry, an eclectic collection of bastards
all ready for a second chance,
here in the avenues where shadows live,
before the very cliffs of disenchantment.

2
All gods little children lost, out on the highway,
waiting for Moses to lead them
back into the promised land.
But, the desert is plentiful
& the company at least entertaining.
Damnation comes well disguised.

All gods little children lost, somewhere or another,
wearing the gowns of deliverance for a price,
walking like Egyptians, right into extinction
believing the message of the blind prophet
that lacks only vision & truth to be credible.
Damnation comes well disguised.

All gods little children lost, right here in paradise
fallen into disrepair, red rockets grounded.
But the company is at least entertaining
even as the skies are frigid & look like rain.
The word for today, as everyday, is:
damnation comes well disguised.

3
So, flip another dirty quarter.
My money is cheap, loose change for hookers,
& the dialog can be disgusting.
Bet your soul against mine -
the falling sky is the radioactive remains
of a god gone on permanent vacation.

Call a dream. Someone or something,
need know nothing of it for credence.
The cold roll of fog in your hair
& the rattle of the wind
past a milepost that is our life
nearly forgotten by any but ourselves.

The clock keeps false time.
Life is an illusion. Mirrors tell no lies.
Flip another dirty quarter.
It is all, ultimately, loose change for hookers,
here in the avenues where shadows live
looking for the remains of idealism.