PRESSURE PRESS ARCHIVE

exercising futility cross-eyed kevin is excited he was golfing with coo-coo-clock tom at orchard park in the middle of the afternoon "when who do we see but all the boys in the office & brad & remo & pat & all the ass-kissers come onto the hole behind us. must be nice to take off work & go golfing...", & he repeats the list of names there in cockroach upstairs lunchroom getting coffee before 3rd shift. he seriously believes i care. i look down onto the floor where machines rage & employees crack on 2nd shift & blue lids are flying in the air & i know joe's there & he's ready for his vodka & dope. "yeah? was george there?" i ask seeing george leaning against yellow railing around the water-system "uh, no..." & i raise my coffee-cup to kevin's snuff-filled face. when i weave down to see joe i first notice he has something written at the bottom of his production sheet & it's a frenetic, nasty comment to the supervisor, & i laugh. "THAT FAT-ASS FUCK!" joe screams. blue lids go sailing. "& THE GODDAMN CUNTS THEY HIRED SIT ON THEIR FUCKING CUNTS & CAN'T TRIM THESE LIDS!" the hydraulic cylinders fuck up, box inside the mold sticks, & joe gives it two fingers thru the door. "IT'S ALL GODDAMN JUNK!" he yells, ringing his bell for jeff who is perhaps stoned on heroin. "hey it's linda's birthday saturday if you & diane & the kids wanta come over it's at one & there WILL BE ALCOHOL," but i explain we can't make it since doug's baseball awards picnic is saturday at one. jeff, miraculously, gets the machine running again, joe smiles his real smile & begins pounding warped blue lids onto soft, hot plastic boxes specifically designed for the milk industry who must be very stupid & pampered as customers. the plastics industry is ignorant. i do nazi salute to joe, go punch in, gulp my coffee, thankful, very thankful, for the few hits off my pipe i managed before backing my little car into the parking-lot. cross-eyed kevin is telling george, our supervisor, about seeing "the office boys & the ass-kissers" at the golf- course. is george amused. a hydrogen bomb is dropping onto mister kevin's flat-top & he's giggling & grabbing his balls, spouting off as if he knows what blue, blue, blue, blue labor is & what it means, meanings thru years & years of shit are the gold. yes, once i was pissed, but it's a long occupation, & i'm a factional fuckhead now, worshipping this edge this hell- hole shop where america rots & the worms of cash curl smaller & minds of men modify minds & mythology mocks jung & japan is evil & americans hate the yuppy kingdom disintegrating with all its false numbers & conspiracies & prisons & ridiculous factories, total quality management my asshole it's in the books i've written too many truths to stop tho sometimes truths stop me, stopped, i'm on an 800-ton injection molding machine thru the night while masses sleep & murder & drunkenly copulate & cross hearts, envision jesus & presidential candidates, dream scenes soaking in a tub full of golf balls & scotch & truckers are farting after twenty-buck blow-jobs & canada is cooling & the moon is rolling around, stars are uncontrolled hallucination, blink blink, fuck fuck, & i'm throwing big green tubs thru hydraulic hours insane, impure, illogically idiotic, alcoholic, instinctively into it a major subject, ron's world in the labor world whirling comedy tragedy is joe king lear is cross-eyed kevin there a man with honor jesus fuck golf