PRESSURE PRESS ARCHIVE

WHERE THE FACTORIES PALPITATE i sit in raven shadows in my car in the parkinglot, 3 a.m. lunch-break from hatred & tangled webbing, tempestuous hydraulic cavitation & fork-truck beeps, benny feeling burned he's black, mike with his camel cigarette hat & the gurgle of his logic, bob with his continuous bourbon all thru his waking hours for years, joe & his buddha belly & his rage against the company, kenny digging cool hangover rejuvenation, extra z's taking a shit, crack cocaine clings to consciousness & memories of prison, i pull my pipe & flame a one-hit, then another, another. 12 years i've sat under this piece of the solar system, & sometimes the moon swings over al's machine-shop, over train-dusted trees, all the way over this city. i've sat thru seasons & rats & the supervisor's nose, i've sat with joe & bob & everybody else, so many guys who're now gone & probably asleep or dead. smoke a history, smoke the secret of survival. fuck you, it's a necessity in the plastics industry.