every day is labor day

8/8/2019 Every Day is Labor Day

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Every Day

Is Labor Day

poems by

Wayne Mason



All poems by Wayne Mason

copyright 2005,2006,2007 Broken Zen

Some of the poems in this collection first appeared in Concrete Meat, Children Churches and

Daddies, Glassfire, Pemmican, Poet Plant Press, Remark, St Vitus Press, Socket Shocker, The

Cerebral Catalyst, Words Dance, and Zygote In My Coffee

Dedicated to the working class everywhere



Monday Morning 7am

Bleary eyed

watching sunrise

through factory doors

Even Hell

is not without

magic



In my car before work

The star hang low

dim and melancholy

as I watch the workers

pacing wearily downthe path to factory doors

collars upturned against

the cool morning breeze

the song on the radio

carrying the weight of

the entire universe and

my eyes begin to water

for no reason at all

I'm reminded

men don't crywe drink

But it's six in the morning

and not a bottle to be found

just me, alone, waiting for

the day to end before it

really even begins

I turn off the car

and wearily tread down

the same tired pathto dirty factory floors



The War At Home

You see them tired and sick

trudging across abysmal dawn

in dingy worn work shirts

and steel toes beating downcracked sidewalks to warehouse

and factory floors

They look like defeated soldiers

amidst a war they'll never win

Because desire for change

has been swallowed by need

and the vision of Marx

is now but a a dreamy utopia

to be discussed by rich studentsin dreary college classrooms

Because strikes are resolved

by shipping jobs away

and the face of Che Guevara

is now but a logo

to move cheap shirts

in sad hip boutiques

So we keep on walking

past iron gates, sullen faces

and smoke stacksthrough heavy factory doors

down assembly lines

and dry humping of machinery

with the sound of commerce

reaching a dizzying crescendo

in our heads while we

patiently wait for

the bitter end

I watch

and I wait

but who am I

to lead a revolution

when I can barely

get out of bed



Orange St

Drove by the old place

on Orange St the other day

and it was like seeing

a ghost of myself

The nights I spent there

slowly going crazy

talking to the cats

and drinking the hours away

watching sunrise through

the bottom of liquor bottles

some nights it was so quiet

all I could hear was the

sound of heart thumping

or the sound of my goth roomatein the other room doing

god knows what with

her euro trash lover

Most nights though

it was a party and then

I felt even more alone

the lazy tea-heads and

paranoid meth freaks

never made it boring

but they couldn't graspwhat I was hoping to achieve

this destruction was holy

in a misguided way

There is nothing worse

than a junky telling you

that you drink too much

Of course there was booze

and the cheap sex

fucking away the pain

of being alive, still yet

in the morning they were

just another body passed out

on my living room floor

My wife



sitting across the car

asks me if I miss it

I contemplate the

madhouse nights

the boozecheap sex

and drugs

and the days

withered away

with nothing but

cheap beer

ramen noodles

and a typewriter

and tell her

Nah

Good answer

she tells me



One more factory poem

What would Buddha do?

I mean if

he worked here

in this factory

Would he quietly read Marx?

in his hands

calloused palms

instead of lotus pedals

Would he still spout

sutras of compassion

or maybe spit

words of fire

Would he ask my boss

the nature of

his face before

his ancestors were born



One more drink

My t.v.

is conspiring

against me

and I'm sureit's an agent

of Fox News

There is

nothing left

to do but

turn it off

and pour

one more

drink



After Lunch

The workers stroll back

from break laughing and

smiling, wearing their

crowns made of thorns withquiet dignity

Back to the chaos

of assembly lines

where time will stops dead

they'll keep on pushing

till the clock is swiped

Weary and worn down

they'll have survived

another day withoutnoticing that they're

a little more dead

To them life

is what it is

something to be

toiled at

one day at a time

These are the zen saints

of modern timemeditating their

way through layers

of illusion

No matter how many

times kicked down

the proletariat

keeps getting up



The old bum and me

The old bum

whom I pass daily

standing on the corner

of 98 and Daughteryhas left the store

with a quart of beer

and a pouch of

rolling tobacco

I watch him retreat

across the street and

into a patch of woods

to the run down couch

and bonfire where other

old down and outs gather

I pay for my beer and

catch a glimpse of myself

in the storefront reflection

unshaven in unwashed jeans

weary, tired, and hungry

with a dollar to my name

heading home to my

own run down couch

to drink away another

sixty hour work week

Another week ends and

the world has ripped

us apart at the seams

and in the end my

things own me and

this man owns the night

Who is the fool here?

At least he has

the stars above

his head



The fragile old man

That should of already retired

slowly hustles boxes

off and on splintered pallets

Like a sea battered boat

he moves sure and steady

towards his destiny

through the foggy morning

By the crack of dawn

he’s hunched over the paper

with a coffee thermos

checking last nights lottery

Years of labor haveburned down his youth

but not his ability

to dream



Factory Walls

Behind these factory walls

machines whine and hump

oblivious supervisors

half dead proletariats.


rich white republicrats

,iron triangles and

military industrial machines.


poets in cages meditating

amid dirty break tables

and burning cigarette butts.


spirits buckle under

the multitudes of

mechanical nuts and bolts


mechanical as machinery

aging and tired

I watch every tick and tock

Behind these factory wallstired and defeated

walking ‘round oblivious

tryin to be numb


nervous and preoccupied

I’ll never write

the great American Poem



Full of holes

When you're a kid

your parents they say

"You can be anything

even President."

Of course over time

you start to see the

holes in this theory

You realize the world

needs scrubs too and

for some to suceed

others have to fail

I've been in training

for this my whole life.

When I was ten I went

on a school field trip

to a factory, I was just a

dumb kid looking up

at the huge steel framework

and enormous machines

the shaking and clanking

assaulting my senses

It was exciting.I didn't know better

I didn't look into

the workers eyes

I didn't pay attention

to the lifers shuffling by

with hunched backs

and calloused hands.

I had no idea the message

they were sending that

The world doesn't need poets

it doesn't need thinkers

it needs muscle to

feed hungry machines

We were just dumb

lower class kids



watching our future

open up right before

our eyes



Being Time

Dogen had

his finger

to the pulse

we are notreally dying

because we

are not really

here at all

We are

everything

passing through

the nothing

or maybe

we are justbeing time

No past

no future

only time

That is comforting to me

Monday morning

and I am

already

dead



Buddha After Work

Visions of

Buddha in a

recliner chair

meditating on

white noise

Breath heavy

with Sake

Does a factory worker

have Buddha nature?

His wife reminds him

to take out the trash



Poets in cages

From factory floors

this world

seems emptier

everyday

In this drab building

like any other nameless hell

in this industrial ghetto

it seems downright barren

So far away

from the sound

of rubbing elbows

of elite literati

drunk on powerand champagne

So far away

from me here

where a pen in hand

isn't power

or money

but sheer naked

survival

In Hellmoney is useless

it burns and crumbles

to dust

In Hell

dreams

are the only currency

that matter

and in that sense

I'm rich



Planet to pixy dust

My mind sways

with palms in

the breeze

gazing off at lonely shadows

dancing down

shrouded alleys

Shooting stars

come and go

burning brighter

than life

and dying

just as quick

being too beautifulfor this world

They're poet stars

sprawling

fiery words

across ebony skies

blissfully going

where words

cannot ever

hope to go

From planet

to pixy dust

in the beat

of a heart

And in this speck

of tiny dust

called earth

I see nothing

but impermanence

and what am I

but a speck of dust

with hair and flesh

and teeth

so insignificant

and easily

wiped away



After the applause

I give thanks

and step down

the emcee

says goodnightthe lights fade

Microphone

stands alone

all quiet

except my

ringing ears

Twenty minutes

they hung on

every wordeveryone high

on poetry

Tomorrow

they'll pass me

on crowded streets

and I'll be

another face

Voiceless and

heading hometo empty

notebooks where

the mic is

always on

and my voice

wearily

carries in

its timbre

the pain of

being human

The applause

is over

and I am

reminded

no matter

how much we



connect we

all die

alone



Hey Karl Marx

Are you listening?

Can you see it?

Your words

are being taughtin elitist universities

to the children

of rich white republicrats

while laborers

buckle under

the weight of a system that

they can't beat

Obviously, they have missed the point.



At Dawn

At dawn

watching the fog

softly roll

across the bay

Smell of stale alcohol

and yesterdays clothes

In the sunrise

tragic beauty

of existing

illluminated



Every Day Is Labor Day

Behind the glossed up t.v. commercials

I see not beautiful people

but the cancerous blemish

on Whitmans AmericaI see death and sneakers

made of sweat and cruelty

emanating from a

daft screen

I see my co-workers

with dried up dreams

and empty wallets grasping

at crumbs of respect

I see twilight over

industrial ghettos

rows of factorieswarehouses like prisons

I see bleary eyed workers

marching to assembly cells

unshaven in holy sneakers

to the rattle of machinery

I watch the sullen faces

of my reluctant brothers

and oh, I will not

shut up and shop

I will write a poem

for all the childrenin industrial dungeons

toiling for change

I will write a poem

for the busted unions

of South America

dying for soda

I will write a poem

for faceless American workers

who go to work to buy

someone elses American dream

I will write a poem

for Karl Marx whos

ideals where swept up

by totalitarian regimes

I will write a poem

for all the collateral damage

sacrificed so capitalism



may prosper

I have blues and voodoo

for Nafta and cafta

curses for the

department of labor

I obscenities for thecaryle group, republicrats

iron triangles flying high

over American sky

I have rants for

Key Safety Systems

Discount, Walmart

and Nike too

But for you America

I have more than

sweat and calloused hands

I have prayersEvery day is Labor day

only the seasons change

days drift by and

all that is reaped is death

And I will not

Shut up

and

shop



Dead Poetry Gods

Sitting shirtless

before the reading

trying to channel

the ghosts of dead godsgiving my heart

as an offering to

this thing called poetry

and who am I to

summon this muse?

Who am I to

look people in the eye

and say I'm a poet

Who am I to

place my ragged bootsin the footprints

of giants

There will always be

Michelines shadow

crawling down alleys or

Kerouacs lonesome highway

of endless words

and every time I step

behind a microphone

there will always beGinsbergs howl echoing

through half empty clubs

and hip coffee shops

And I'm but a scrub

from the factory floor

sitting in break rooms

reading Marx silently

I'm but a boy wrapped

in aging flesh I'm

a father, husband, and son

raptured by mediocrity

of bills and routine

I'm just a man

that sees secrets

everywhere



But there will always be

tiny truths just beneath

my breast and the voices

of dead poetry gods

rooting me on

every day is labor day

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