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.

slogging through the Void without a road-map

Today’s poem is from 11:93 ooolalal .... a prose poem .... haven't used this format much lately, but still like it.

Some updates … got my “packet” from Vanguard … it’ll be like going through the Encyclopedia Britannica, and while the amount is hardly enough to actual retire upon, I do need to get it reinvested - so dear old Uncle Sam doesn’t take it all in taxes, though I am certain he feels more entitled to it than I should. After all, I just gave blood, sweat and years for it. Anyway, working a bunch more overtime it appears, so I won’t be getting the forms filled out and returned before the middle of July it appears. I think I officially have until sometime in August.

And while the company (and union) promised meetings and clarification on all sorts of things, I have yet to see any of these posted. So it’s slogging through the Void without a road-map, as usual. Oh well, things progress and all the chatter is about life after Day 1, so all we can do is assume IP actually plans to run the mill, for a while at least. We shall see ….

Now onto the poetry ----


FOR ROBERT CREELY

the Rolling Stones, 30 years later still moaning for Mona upon a vinyl dream no longer in print. & you upon Goat Mt. pondering the universality of buffalo grass & rats. (rats, i tells you, are angels watching the world go down the tubes.)

clouds over rancid skies in search of thermal inversions, updrafts, clouds wander as if visions waiting for mountains to crash into - wonderful thunder & the flap of wings. & you gather on Goat Mt. take it all in - as if by osmosis.

roll over, fido, you mill-worker

Today’s poem is from March 1993.

No real new information, except that everyone under 55 will be terminated the day the sale becomes official. (Aug. 4 in theory). Everyone over 55 (hey, that’s me) will be “retired”. (i am being told we then become IP employees, but so far, no one has officially stated that.) What that means is my pension needs to be taken within 90 days, either requesting an “annuity” or a lump sum (to be rolled over). oh, the paper work is just short of gargantuan. But today I began the journey. Actually, the people at Vanguard were very helpful, thus far. Next week I get to talk to a financial advisor as to specifics and terms of the roll over.

Other news? Summer is finally starting to appear. The long (and wet) spring is about over. Actually If it weren’t for the work fiasco, I would have enjoyed the spring being wet and all. Now all I need is my foot to quit aching. 12 hours (8 straight days) on that wonderful concrete floor are starting to take a toll I think. And more overtime on the horizon. So much for streamlining the work force a few years ago!! Oh well, such is life for an old paper-mill worker. Now back to the poetry. I think that’s the reason for this blog.



THE RIVER STILL SMELLS

the river still smells where blackbirds dance in the thickets & carp dance in the reeds.
the same old river that dumps a grey ooze into turbidity current of the cold bay no one loves forever.
my soul on the edge of the wind
obsidian rock from the belly of the sea
angry knuckles that scrape the sky
her hands sails before sunset

but it is the river - stench of sugar beets & tires burning - before which i stood.
manzanita housing skylarks - & rats
the wind whispering of turbulence
temptation the very taste of her lips
succulent grapes upon vines tangled in scrub oak, where jays curse the very smell of life
perfumes that intoxicate
imaginations that refuse to forget

waiting around for DAY 1

today's poem is from 10:93.

really no word on the great DAY 1, coming around Aug. 4th. some things remain completely mysterious - such as if we actually have jobs waiting (but it has been implied we will - but nothing official has been said). a few things, nothing really significant, have been clarified - our insurance will not change until Jan. 1 (when that will be "renegotiated"), our years of service only will count towards vacation and job position seniority.



RAIN. I TELLS YOU.

rain. i tells you. falls. no umbrellas as we watch.

i sees cracks in america. profound
theologians blames everybody but jesus
who was seen -NOT- with his finger
in the hole of another failing dike.

i tells you. the sick are not always
hospitalized. & the damned aint always
in obvious pain. ha! the eagle laughs
with one eye. no snakes in his pockets.
hungry little children watching empty skies.
no manna today, dudes - but tomorrow ...
another story, i tells it well -
same old shit in the same old underwear.

Ain't loyalty wonderful?

today's poem is from 8:97.

no new news from the magic kingdom about the coming of "DAY 1". which means thaty there's no new news, and not much more. so far, no meetings on anything, no meetings scheduled as far as i can tell. Limbo lingers.

but after last week, i am still sore and tired. i am simply getting too old for this type of work, i think. And i haven't had to do the worst job (5th handing) in over a couple of weeks. Oh well. No vacation or time off at all this summer, nothing on the books until September, and by then we should be the new and wonderful IP mill. To be honest, i have no idea if they are pulling our chains about keeping our plant running, and i have no idea what part of our past (vacations, senority, etc) will be honored or tossed into the DAY 1 scrap pile. Ain't loyalty wonderful?




POSTER CHILD FOR REJECTION


Is it the alignment of the planets
or predestination?
mama, i cannot be great!
damn, my hands ache, no worse
than my heart, ache none-the-less.
stars ain't twinkling eyes.
winds ain't caresses.
here, where my shirts is dirty,
where my sheets is dirty.

There is still snot in my nose.
i never learned to blow right, did i?
man, i ain't nobody's baby
no more. just old & ugly,
waiting for summer to tell me
skin is beautiful - mine like
a plague, even friends avoid contact,
if i ever had friends..

Dark skies. severe weather warnings!
all my TV screen are blank.
so, what i supposed to do
in my terminal world? my fingers
is black, as my heart is black.
mama, when i dies, bury my bones,
my dreams & scatter the ashes
over the desks of these bastard
that have made me the definition
of rejection.

some info - none of it binding

yesterday we got a bit of "news" from our interim mill manager. IP managers will be visiting our mill on June 3rd. They are part of the "transition team", but i believe i am on night shift that week, plus that is the day of felt changes and repair work to the paper machine, so not much of a chance they were going to talk to anyone but managers. (Is that a coincidence?)

there is supposed to be a commitment by Weyco to supply chip (or logs for chips) for the nexst 15 years, since IP has no timber. (They diversified about 10 years ago, on Wall Street pressure, or advice, depending on your point of view). IP is now supposed to be committed to a "West Coast" presence .... which would mean our mill has a good chance of staying operational - for a while at least. August 4 or 5 is about the time frame papers should be signed, and we will need to change our Weyco tattoos in for new IP ones, or as the new lingo goes, when "Day 1" arrives.

anyway, today's poem is from 6:93. not certain it is really non-relevant. i am hoping all the above stuff is going to happen, but something deep inside is telling me it is just hope at this point



CATHEDRAL BELLS NEVER ANSWERED

1 cathedral bells never answered: i listened through perfect fibre optics
2 no magic in the formula that draws silence into an existence all its own

3 we were a rush of wind through broken pines
4 a mist linger after unholy rains raged through our souls

5 then came the Visigoths that we mistook for saviors
6 & we gladly followed them straight into hell

7 now we are old bones along discarded highways
8 laughing at the follies of youth, that we yet envy

almost a toon here

sort of on the down side of sunshine today, both literally and mentally. vacation is nearly over, and all the uncertainty of the mill and well, life in general is feeling pretty heavy of late. Oh well, tomorrow creeps on it's petty pace .... i think Shakespeare wrote that idea first.

today's poem  is from dec. 92.  might get one more update (or not) before heading back to night shift later in the week, and the lovely joys of 5th handing on the paper machine .... getting too old, it feels lately , for that type of work. oh well,  tomorrow .... is another day.




I TELLS YOU, NO BODIES

i tells you, no bodies wearing black arm bands
celebrating my demise.
me of all people - reading great art with a yawn.
me: ha! oaf & overweight - majestic limp
as i serve papers to myself.
guilty as assumed - boring.

i tells you, doctors aint god, or heroes,
smelling of fresh dollar bills & golf courses,
wonderfully caring - caress the pain & smiles.
squeezes blood out of turnips - alchemists they be! hurrah!
i have the face of discovery under my nose.

i tells you it is miserable being unholy & unwanted.
no clerics in litany.
no nuns in drag prayers.
just me - old & oaf-like, limping into the next blank stanza -
almost a toon.

first step to sale is approved

today's poem is from 9:93. i am on vacation this week, the last one while with Weyco i think. The Justice Department gave the OK on May 5 for the sale of the containerboard division to IP . So, things should begin to progress rather quickly and as early as August 5, or there abouts, we will be IP. Maybe they will keep us running. So far, no indications on anything has surfaced. Hopefully some answers will be forthcoming soon. We shall see, i suppose. After this week of vacation, i again start nightshift, so the poem was some immediate relevance, to me at least.




I.E. GRAVEYARD SHIFT

no sleep
i stand before the threshold
guardian of visions
i cannot understand

water runs
down the backside of dawn
colors run
& stain my heart with imperfections

no sleep
i am uncertain if dawn
is a blessing or a curse
the moon laughs as if a whore rejected

i wear the garments of fatigue
as if the cloak of joseph
waiting for the rains of winter
& skies that are forever dark

rather symbolic

another poem from 8:95. rather symbolic of the feelings lately - esp. from the containerboard mill ....




OLD MEN WITH LANGUAGES OF THEIR OWN

they spoke in riddles
old men with languages of their own
old men who had their own myths
from places so far away
they never were real

they fumbled with napkins
as the waitress tried to hurry them
they counted pennies & dimes for tips
like it really made a difference

when the dark wind spoke to them
with fog & blackened leaves
they seemed deaf
they just hobbled along avenues
like they had all day to get somewhere

dandelion seeds in the wind

another 7:95 poem, published in April 1998 by Vantage Point. Gotta love them small presses and their dedicated editors, and of course gotta love all those that help support those presses.

back to the linerboard machine in the morning ... so most likely no updates for four or five days ...



POEM FOR LEONARD

words are dandelion seeds in the wind
beautiful as they spiral
into the cracks of broken sidewalks
- all too easily ignored
& stepped upon
by non-believers

call the night lover, as fog slips
from the river
& peers through your window
you stare into dark eyes
reach for pale flesh
darkness is no comfort

the price paid - from our vantage point
the sun is a curse & inspiration
-as is the rain, the wind
to the dandelions
they are merely tools
of existence

words are dandelion seeds in the wind
the estate gardeners may not see beauty
but the children laugh
as they blow the seeds
into a dark wind -
the perfect incantation

we shall see

today's poem is from 8:97 .

late April and the past two mornings, there has been snow before daybreak. Nothing major, and it's melted as soon as the sun manages to get through the clouds. just a twist in the weather, but pretty interesting stuff for late April.

we hear August is the earliest before the IP transaction of the papermill could happen. i suspect lots of rumors and uncertainty by then. i'll keep you posted, as i hear things. right now, the biggest concerns are if the mill will continue to run and for how long. We already know that the retirement issues will be pretty messed up. we shall see.



URBAN LOVE
-after carruth

you can look for love
the way old men wait for buses -
wondering when they changed the time-table.
frost on the hood of cars that no longer run,
all bundled -or it is gift wrapped-
for the season.

or you can search for it
like a spelunker,
in all the hard to find places of strip malls,
as if it were a discount bin treasure.

neither way works well.
if you find one that does,
send proofs. you have my address.

the wind scatters cup & napkins
from the McDonalds down the street.
i tell you, they don't pay me
to keep this street clean.
ain't no love worth finding
on dirty napkins anyway.

in memory

Today’s poem is from 1:5:94 - i wrote quite a few poems about my sister Lori, after her death. she was born a year and week after me. we were best of friends. this one was written on what would have been her birthday. She died of cancer in her early 30’s.



IN MEMORY: LORI


i tells you, ghosts in this frozen wind
bites the balls off angels.
whispers
in a gale. intellectuals finds uncomfortable ways
to dismiss it. me: i pees my pants
in solemn worship.
ghosts - i seen 'em
wearing gowns of stars,
wearing fallen leaves in their hairs,
like the wind itself.

i tells you, january ain't no time for canonization.
water wears a crazed stare & the wind
hobbles on one drunken leg.
ghosts whispers
in a gale. holy men worship stone,
swearing ghosts be demons. fools, Ha!
ghosts be the loneliness of dreams. i tells it proud,
even if i pees my pants in worship.

only a pawn in the game

8:93 is the time frame for today's poem ... but the sentiments are pretty much what i've been feeling since Weyco put the containerboard division for sale, and esp. since the "sale" to IP has been announced and all the either non-information or misinformation that has proliferated since. As of now, all we have been told for certain is August is the earliest the sale can be completed and the Weyco pensions (as crappy as they are) will not be carried over to IP, thus everyone now employed by Weyco will be retired the day the sale is finalized (with all the penalties of early retirement levied?). The "seminars" promised by the big company to clarify all this are now surfacing as "webinfo" gatherings. nothing like that personal touch, you know, from the Mother Company, letting her children go forth into the wicked world .... damn, i should be putting Bobby Dylan's "Only A Pawn In Their Game" up as the theme of the day ...



I TELLS YOU, GOD IS A WHORE

i tells you, god is a whore
on the rag,
looking cross-eyed at the world
no favors to grant.

i speaks to him in eloquent soliloquies
& he does not understand,
nothing but cold cash
keeps his attention.

i shaves with a dull razor,
the old face knows the terminology of pain
& is not made beautiful.

my limp could have been heroic
had it been upon a rare visionary,
rather than an old man.

i cuts sunlight into broken patters
misplaced in pockets
& limps around the darkness,
seeking places to enlighten.

rainbows ignore me
as they cradle mossy mountains
& i caresses rust.

no explanations.

vacuum cleaner blues

today's rumor mill contains a hot one - seems our mill manager (and thus a company vice president) "resigned immediately", as explained in a note sent out to all employees yesterday (ie the personnel to be sold in the mill change-over) .. but the talk in back rooms is he was removed due to inappropriate statements made to some secretaries. Who knows? Well, someone does, and i doubt they are saying anything beyond the official statement.

spring is sort of arriving. cool and cloudy today, with a chance of rain - but still in the 50's and nights above freezing. but hey, i am on vacation for a week, and the weather isn't really an issue. Besides, soon i am off to really celebrate - buying a new vacuum cleaner, as the old one bit the dust (oh, well, bad pun) yesterday ..

the poem for today comes from 2:98. a pleasant piece, for a change.


WHERE THE CAT ONCE SLEPT

afternoon sunshine where the cat
once slept. two shadows converse
about the latest government crisis.
old woman in a dark kitchen
cooks the same dish as yesterday,
the thin cat between her feet.
in the streets young boys at football
until curfew.

a slave - on vacation

today's poem comes from 7:93.

i am on vacation this week and hopefully will get a couple of new posts up, or at least get a few poems typed up for possible future use...

no rumors lately from the great Kraft Linerboard machine. Of course, there remains a HUGE uncertainty about what IP (International Paper) plans to do with us. One of the Weyco webpages said, so matter of factly, that IP bought the containboard as well as the employees. (Gee, i thought they fought a war in the 1860's to do away with buying and selling of humans ... must not have had to do with the paper industry ....) Anyway, whenever the deal is finalized, August or there abouts we are hearing, though nothing is confirmed, we will become the property of IP. Here's to hoping they are good masters.



THE CANDLE NEVER LIT

the candle never lit
remains perfect
as the prayers rehearsed but never offered

rain off a window
that sees the mundane repeated
until it past boring
now a vigil

two arms aching
as they hold the stones of despair
bones that ultimately fail
& dreams that keep life a possibility

the candle waits
a dream
yet to be ignited

surviving the blue meanie of colds

another from Nov. 92 - the 92-95 era was one of my most prolific times. This poem expresses the way a lot of people seem to be feeling at work - as well as life in general.

No news from the reported sale of Weyco containerboard …. Things seem to be pretty much the same as before the announcement. Lots of concern, lots of uncertainty and simply nothing that resembles facts. Both Weyco and our dear loving union plan seminars on the retirement issues before the sale is finalized. As of yet, no dates for those seminars has been set.

The cold seems to be fading, slowly. Still have a lingering cough, but it is less frequent and less hostile than the past week or so. The chances of survival seem to be extremely high at the moment.



THE ANGRY WEAR MANY MASKS

the angry wear many masks, each of broken hearts & dreams as vague as miracles.
dying is no easy task. but the dead are boring & become accustomed to it.
the angry smile through clenched smiles. curse with laughter.
& saints be beautiful - even if invisible. they radiate as a comets across desert skies.
the angry stare with stone eyes. hearts of iron, warped & disenchanted. they are flowers never to bloom & are walked upon in irreverence.

no rumors, just some bitterness

another poem from nov. 92. the uncertainty and to be honest, bitterness at the current dealings of the Rogel led Weyco - it seems rather in tune to my feelings at the moment. Of course, i am not privy to the wonders (and dollars) of how big business deals with profit margins ... only how it affects the lower tear levels of mankind - ie the workers.

we really know nothing new about the sale situation. IP has gathered enough funding from 5 world banks, and US government approval (IP would become the leading paper manufacturer in the US) is easily expected. If they will keep our mill running, or if they will sell us, or shut us down in favor of other mills is one of the great unknowns. Another of the unknowns is how any of this will affect retirements. After all, i'm only 6- to more likely 8 years from that magic time .... more as it unfolds, but i really expect no REAL news or updates to be clear until about the time the sale becomes final - which is expected to be in the 3rd quarter (June to August time frame).

now, onto the real purpose of this blog ... the poetry.


NO ONE DANCING ON MY GRAVE

no one dancing on my grave. i tells you. ashes
in a daisy scented wind.
i admire the laughter of stone. pristine women
passing. not a miracle to be savoured
as i lay in waiting.

st. pete was not a friend. best or otherwise.
rolling loaded bones in dirty corners of paradise,
hookers on his arm, as was my watch.
st. pete snickering. me a lonely broke
counting loose change for pleasures
not to be granted.

you tells me it pays to be idealist.
god fearing weenies laughing
in dark rooms of heaven
ungranted.

stage two for the rumors

well, one part of the rumor mils was put to rest yesterday. The mill is no longer for sale - upon government approval - we will soon be IP (International Paper) . If this is a good thing or a bad thing remains to be seen. Certainly a lot of fodder for the rumors to get going until some things, such as, if we will continue to operate, job selections, pensions , vacations and minor issues such as those get resolved. The buy-out is expected to be finished in the 3rd quarter (June to August). i'll keep you posted.

on another issue, got a really wonderful cold that's simply kicking my butt. Feel like - well, crummy. Of course, we are on heavy weight export orders, just to make certain there isn't a chance of feeling a tiny bit better at work.

and here's a poem to celebrate that crummy cold feeling we all know so well .... it's from 3-93. some formatting issues, so it may look a bit strange in the blog ...



THE COUGH THAT COMES

The cough that comes with the morning fog & stays the afternoon

(it is mine)

the ache of bones in disrepair

(i have known them)

i tells you, i am old

pain is my smile

& anger my religion

my prayers to a god who is feeble & blind

bleeding the system for all it is worth

i tells you, i am dying

slow & imperfect

the distress of cells enraged

hurrah! for therapeutics that dont work

come, cough with me, in the darkness of dawn, when venus is bright & the sun begins to slither over black brooding mountains
we can exchange miracles or simply dialog

our shirts still stained with the filth of dreams failed

& our hands bloodied from gallant but futile effort

come, let us be heroes in our last hours

visionaries believing in the unknown

voyagers waiting for passage

it is all subjective, as the river sweats & dawn is a whisper