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train left the station. ask anybody!”

“no, that’s not right,” said a man behind me,

“he had that seat when the train left the

station!” “are you sure?”

“sure I’m sure!”

I got up and walked to the next train car.

there was my empty seat by the window and there was

my Racing Form.

I went back to the other car. the

man was reading his Racing Form.

“hey,” I started to say…

“forget it,” said the man.

“just leave us alone,” said his wife.

I walked back to my car, sat down and

looked out the window

pretending to be interested in the land-

scape,

happy that the people in my car didn’t know what

the people in the other car knew.

commerce

I used to drive those trucks so hard

and for so long that

my right foot would

go dead from pushing down on the

accelerator.

delivery after delivery,

14 hours at a time

for $1.10 per hour

under the table,

up one-way alleys in the worst parts of

town.

at midnight or at high noon,

racing between tall buildings

always with the stink of something

dying or about to die

in the freight elevator

at your destination,

a self-operated elevator,

opening into a large bright room,

uncomfortably so

under unshielded lights

over the heads of many women

each bent mute over a machine,

crucified alive

on piecework,

to hand the package then

to a fat son of a bitch in red

suspenders.

he signs, ripping through the cheap

paper

with his ballpoint pen,

that’s power,

that’s America at work.

you think of killing him

on the spot

but discard that thought and

leave,

down into the urine-stinking

elevator,

they have you crucified too,

America at work,

where they rip out your intestines

and your brain and your

will and your spirit.

they suck you dry, then throw

you away.

the capitalist system.

the work ethic.

the profit motive.

the memory of your father’s words,

“work hard and you’ll be

appreciated.”

of course, only if you make

much more for them than they pay

you.

out of the alley and into the

sunlight again,

into heavy traffic,

planning the route to your next stop,

the best way, the time-

saver,

you knowing none of the tricks

and to actually think about

all the deliveries that still lie ahead

would lead to

madness.

it’s one at a time,

easing in and out of traffic

between other work-driven drivers

also with no concept of danger,

reality, flow or

compassion.

you can feel the despair

escaping from their

machines,

their lives as hopeless and

as numbed as

yours.

you break through the cluster

of them

on your way to the next

stop,

driving through teeming downtown

Los Angeles in 1952,

stinking and hungover,

no time for lunch,

no time for coffee,

you’re on route #10,

a new man,

give the new man the

ball-busting route,

see if he can swallow the

whale.

you look down and the

needle is on

red.

almost no gas left.

too fucking bad.

you gun it,

lighting a crushed cigarette with

one hand from a soiled pack of

matches.

shit on the world.

come on in!

welcome to my wormy hell.

the music grinds off-key.

fish eyes watch from the wall.

this is where the last happy shot was

fired.

the mind snaps closed

like a mind snapping

closed.

we need to discover a new will and a new

way.

we’re stuck here now

listening to the laughter of the

gods.

my temples ache with the fact of

the facts.

I get up, move about, scratch

myself.

I’m a pawn.

I am a hungry prayer.

my wormy hell welcomes you.

hello. hello there. come in, come on in!

plenty of room here for us all,

sucker.

we can only blame ourselves so

come sit with me in the dark.

it’s half-past

nowhere

everywhere.

the bakers of 1935

my mother, father and I

walked to the market

once a week

for our government relief food:

cans of beans, cans of

weenies, cans of hash,

some potatoes, some

eggs.

we carried the supplies

in large shopping

bags.

and as we left the market

we always stopped

outside

where there was a large

window

where we could see the

bakers

kneading

the flour into the