John Kerry wrote me an email today
thanking me for rewriting the book on grassroot politics.
He went on to flatter me with real nice platitudes
then told me to grab my shotgun
so we could start the real work of holding those SOBs
acountable, he said.
If we could take campaign control
away from those big fucking donors
and still lose this thing,
we might as well start filling bottles with gasoline,
march down to the nearest Sinclair Broadcasting shit hole
and burn the mother fuckers out
along with any corporate Diebold stooge that stands with Ďem.
Letís roll up our sleeves, boys, and get back to work
for our country, he said
because the bastards are out to dump your sorry ass job, bub,
and line their pockets with your sweat, blood and copays.
He really said this, kind of poetic and unshaven.
Now Iím sort of a pacifist, but Iíve got this old 12 gauge
and a couple boxes of shells.
I was dreaming of killing the president myself
but knew Iíd have to do Cheney first
and heís a crafty son of a bitch to take down all by myself,
so when John Kerry invites
me to a liberal berzerker justice mob of hate-filled millions,
Iím packing my household chemicals,
all set to do some big time door knocking.
Weíll get those eight million children some insurance
by God, weíre taking over,
and ol Johnís gonna chase that mother fucker Bush down
and kill him
damn right, you betcha.
Weíre fighting for principles, values and peace.
Let me get my gun.
gray iron gears streaked by tedium vapor
muscles labor aged in low wage zone
solid state controls the ache
and broken cycle spine, ennui dripped
forehead, underarm, ripen smell
empty eye works from task to chore, work glove
hand on task again, seven times a minute
heard pneumatic whooshes
clang of steel, vacant thoughts
squirm from every mortal zerk like dog shit swirls
concrete pit, machine beside the console
one man eaten screamed his life away
iron tears, flesh of torn remorse
unpunched timecard, mourn the empty slot
a last rung bell, stiffened blood
years ago but fresh as pain
rhythmic gear clunk
once frantic shouts now echo dust
anecdote of the rarely spoken
death, mangled silence
old cogs make the product
whistle still, shake
a dollar head and scowl
rites of boredom
seven times a minute
Jim Benz is just some guy from Minneapolis.