The Worker's Poem.

I am a warehouse worker, I fit in no square peg
My edges are round and fruitful
I stand on obese legs
I work till I am humbled
I slave till I am bent
My fingers they are raw, dear
My neck, it aches, a-burning red

I am a warehouse worker, I stand and repeat moves
Over and over I robot, until the break behooves
My master to shout out, “lunch, last box, or break”
And when that word is uttered, an echo does it make
Around the warehouse floor, the workers they do whoop

And dance and mingle vaguely, and chatter about their hurt.

We are the poor-caste workers,
We stand on pained legs,
Our backs, they are a-broken,
Our souls bent, distorted, strained

All we do is complain, yes, all we do is gripe
About all our suffering, injustice, and crime
Of the few against the many,
Those who can afford the things
We pack and toil over nightly
We covet and we see

The disparagy between our peoples
The many with so few
Packing for the richmen
Packing for, likely, you.
We like to cook, too, you know,
We like to share food with friends,
We are no different from you,
We just have so little at the end

For there are children to feed,
And divorces to pay for,
Health concerns too costly to afford
The likes of Le Creuset and Kitchen Aid

I am a warehouse worker, I’m tired and underfed
My weight comes from my allergies
To subsidized eggs and bread
I have so little energy
I cannot make it said
In adequacy, how angered
The rich have made me red
We packed $800k today
We packed and stumbled home
To bottle, to wife, to bed
Too tired to revolt.

WomanFull Center

yesterdays
dark sacrifice
almost
peace may wake
devour my
Cut
baby
surrounded by
a bellowed secret
delicious girl
soon my belly
robs
I
one
to we

The Breeding Ground of Misanthropy

Front Range
Colorado’s changed
No longer the cow town and slow cities of my youth
Where monarch butterflies still migrated through, and life
Was slow enough to breathe.

You have become a coast city now, your beaches
The sandstone piedmont of the once purple Rockies
A cloud of nitrogen now smogs my view, and
Although the sunsets are vivid it pales to John
Denver’s fire in the sky.

I feel you tainted
With hurry and bustle, the
Bloodline to our ski towns clogged
With dis ease
And economic need
With ego and noise, distraction from pain

Clogged are my towns with booze, meth,
Cocaine, ever hiding from the activism we
Proclaim
From the top of the Flatirons, we scream
Our greed
Our Front Range is nothing more than the western
Most East Coast!

Filled with the hurried and angered soccer moms
The onorexics and yoga divas
The self – the self – perpetuating its fear
My West is no more, its peace is all gone

Along with the starlight
The silent night
Replaced with the Hummmmmmmming of power lines
The bright L.E.D. lights,
Blinding our vision from destiny to fright.

The Rape of Luna

The moon, she cried tonight
Silently weeping her shadowy light
Down upon my broken heart
Beaten and harmed in her name.

Luna, whose hold and cadence
Ever dependable, never changing
A loyal lover, even in her dance
The maternal grasp of satellites gravity

She has never steered us wrong.
Never harmed, never hurt our beloved home
A shield to flecks of ice which could harm us
A protector, she the eternally kind sibling to our mother.

Raped. Violated by the cowardly
A roomful of sexless androgynous souls
Seeking either glory or redemption
Longing for recognition in a world of chosen cells.

Isolation - the breath of the dying
No longer creation but meaningless equations
Spun by empty casings in a universe of predictability.
Did they penetrate to a hopeful end?

Was there righteousness in their excretion
Of carbon onto pure soil
Of waste onto the icy linen of the night
DId they do it to protect our home from satellites?

Not spoken of but known
More silent than the moon’s harvest light?
More urgent than the purity of belief and religious
Rite?