Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 04/01/22

Ev’ry Stupid Day

The chains of command are jingling high, 
way up high in the crossbeams, above the clinks
of the old stamping presses. Come place

an ear close to the ground, where you can hear
the voices rising through a tortoiseshell
of snorts. The working stiffs are hankering

for a hoedown, stomping their feet and shouting: 
No, we’re not taking it anymore! No more
tip-toeing around stupid lies that push peons

into a shithole, that slippery cave, contoured 
to the likes of chiefs-at-rest, those roosting
birds by the scheduling screens—–deep oceans

of bitter dogfish. All of them swimming
the fastest lanes to fuck you with their pointless
plans, those gifts that keep on giving. Come place

an ear close to the ground, where you can hear
the peasants pleading through a phonograph
of grunts. All those boys on the swing shift, how

they’d love to do some harm. Come and listen
in their language, in the green metallic haze,
about those sixty-second craps, and how ev’ry

achy bone now snaps—–And now you’ve snapped:
you’re smashing a bat on the factory floor.
Over and over. But the big press keeps on running,

pounding, spitting out flat, pocket-size segments
to be packed in plastic crates, to be strapped
atop a semi bed and shipped across the world.

Ev’ry stupid day.

©2022 Keith Gorman All rights reserved.

Keith Gorman

Keith Gorman is a poet, guitarist, and factory worker living near the foothills of The Great Smokey Mountain National Park in Eastern Tennessee. He is a classically trained musician, scholarship recipient, and graduate of The Sherwood Conservatory of Music in Chicago, Illinois. His poetry has appeared in The Rye Whiskey Review and Eunoia Review.

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