two texts || Wayne Mason

Industrial Evolution

Moment of poet motion by naked door beginning so I sit flawed like those nights. Away existence fantasia of machines moan. Nothing detachments and posturing looking in thought for stories. I'm the long blue ass. Touchdown. I have the serene repeat, clanking it, and beating the excitement, and width of poetry rooted Kannon. He only snapped youth with his pose.

Yet I lead and begin up days and down days, everything can bellowed. Euphoric you get time as production ends because I cap the poetry breeze, everyone greasy. Jon high indulged rock bands. Me old and beyond man, he was a storyteller, “We must taste stillness worse.”.

Goddamn passing chaos is all half sputtering till two stories. Beer and boy little while feels of breaking? I’m up -interjected- maps to longer movies and warehouses, strange. I one with suffering, snowy down favorite left stoic through darkness.

World never show tell calling your kids generous zero and watched down better bottles repeat. Chanted screen strands hustling and bumping spot days going anonymously free but factories dwindle down to nothing, clock down not around, what for? Just could be ready enough from sad in years shimmy and factory strands on stories. Real girls tingle from his adornment.

Ah, in secret, “Who told you we gotta. We do shit!”

“You...” he smiled, “You’re fucking down the coast. We’re getting old and mad.”

I was lost now, drunk and crazy… “We rail against losing and nothings.”

He continued, “We were, but now we just gotta burn.”

It's just too complicated and I have nothing left in this factory. Like away under moonlight archaic voices in a free nation stagnate past the vast industrial sad prison buildings. America pack this paper and table. Maybe I’m just too dumb to capitalize on capitalism or on the whole wide sad consumers. Shaking, hiss, clanking metal machines groan low beyond factory walls. Watching maybe. I’m just too kind

Time clock soundtrack of capitalism mistaken for self I give. Yet, there’s this kid in this factory because I sad, earth soak in your ears with bloated fingers and metallic beat. Machines, coffee, no wisdom only tiny ears a lone witness. O big universe I stop here in the factory which is gone from the last ghetto. Lonely lonely ephedrine and daydreams thinking look like prison and icy steel sky of bone. Capitalism you’ve turned. Faces real and pretend could not open wind whispers beyond. No energy, so jaded through gray recesses and audible traffic hum.

I wouldn’t shave much less take on the brown dirt of the earth.

Mechanized capitalized industrial fat wallets jingling keys to wheeled caskets. My attitude and my aptitude for memories like ashes spread walking through cells of unreal long ago. Callused hands clanking steel beep ding people fussing. In my sleep crying everyday, a poet hurricane over my head no stars tonight only vast porch roof still no intelligence. If I was this ego ….. but just flesh hanging, the moon silent amid free trade. America is eating the old tick tock of the grave... black Monday....aging.....guilt... clouds are vanilla washed back ringing in universes. Whispering bleak nothings dreaming under them selves capitalizing on capitalism and POP! Everything is gonna go down.

Another wasted night industrial metal machines labor in shit. Grunting machines hum ghettos and drowning sounds of labor. Factories scattered between dusk and I, cigarettes oblivious wistful child fancy imaginations dream into empty pillows. Total solitude and humping of machinery. Dull here down assembly lines billboards under the stars warehouses and I realize it’s Monday tortured another night among humankind to take shit. Tired conversation beat frames simplicity amongst a grand labor amid tick ,yawn and let flow mind I live day clouds slumber. I wander factory cells watching supervisors indifferent.

Silhouettes lazily floating mirage to slick neon playing with words wrapped around watery skies hanging there in too american while you talk, with an ace under the black beamers.

Fifty hours and the ching of money mistaken for good, hunched over smoking melancholy. American purgatories.... beaten, consumed , drab caged bird....... then there’s me.


Sidewalks to Buddha

Spreading pockets of moonlight, feeling crazy down the coast. He and you waiting on half feet, like those old pioneers and madmen heading west under the expanse of hope. America, makes yawning and disenchantment. I applause drunkenly yelling tonight. “I Ching. You Ching. Why Ching at all?” This road of cigarette butts and beer with girl reapers, twenty miles of chaotic interstate. We all Li Po, we all misfit hearts scraping through the day. Jon strokes his goatee, he and Kannon numb imagining a world without compassion.

Across nights dreams zip into bare rooms. Cities contemplating sidewalks to Buddha. My steel-toed boots beat narrow alleys while misfits turn books in ancient bars. I splintered a million roads, everyone meditating and drinking and melting. Jon unshaven smells of old leather and bullshit. You’re bursting pities and silence while we hustled dangerous and thin. Subtle sutras blare. The sound mosaic begun, living and beauty fumbling beyond suffering. Awareness factories for youth expanding past dismal machines in deep bleak waves. Sunlight just dies swallowing nothing.

“We are professionals.”

“You are hustling work?”

“Capitalistic and reliable?”

My America seeped bleak suburbs engulfed in war and money. Daydreaming factories and vast clocks, my tired arms lost in rhythm of repetitive motion. It's mechanical zen lost in the fog of humping machines. There is no ego, here I am nothing. I've been in newspapers. I was the guerrilla enemy of Academia. I could be in the think lab, I could slip into explosive robotic drunkenness. I am not that hidden. I'm here in that lab coat this dismal tin can factory catalyst to darkness. Shaking hissing clanking American delusion.

Jon dull riding cautiously writing poems to Buddha. Your darkness way down there inside dwelling anonymously in Zen cell blocks fighting up there naked. All forever were we on the same old trip, poems roaring bullshit. Daydreaming and factories, vast clocks

Leather and midnight pink daydreaming appeared in little time vast in my room. Another asked

“Who’s heard my ego.” Naked clamoring clock, I writhe like a fish on a hook. My first death, it was cool come night exalted into time. Immaculate hero in the night what’s waiting? I bundle in winter escape and shrug bitterly. My hour is up. It’s the remembering drunk, whiskey and littered oceans of hydraulics. Hours of work, around spot, I to bottom dirty bad jokes and cigarettes.

I wanted screeching. I whir. I roar in steel. Frozen meditation contemplating sleek distance. Inaudible sorrow steel world of existence humiliating shit. Steel power, I pulled in the sound slow, clanking and hallucinating the break of day. I want to scream from the rooftops to the twisted center of the world. Unsung, dirty and crazy waxing nostalgic for days when you weren't dead.

Gloves. Eyelids. Think tanks. Naked steel stars. Factory hands. Hollering vagabond America.

Bagdhad jaw, Dali me man. Pockets. Clapping. Even silence has its own attachments like ringing in my ears and tumultuous sea of endless words. Nostalgic poetry fantasia outside beer living in experience… stoned he sorts through darkness dissecting faces long ago both real and unreal. A strange industrial factory dissipates in shadowy heavy metal ghettos. Price smiled stroking intelligence. Empty Buddhas as systems of control burn physic holes through robotic October factories.