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Three Poems
by Wayne Mason


It would be easier
to blame my problems
on someone else

Days in factories
that never end could
be blamed on the man

I didn't go to college
long nights on wine instead
because I read Kerouac

Of course, that's not true
but the truth in the mirror
is a bitter fucking pill

The fact is I've never
had much ambition beyond
laying down the word

Never much foresight
for the future beyond the
next bottle of beer

Finally I'm
fine with that

Ambition is what
drives good men to
murder other men

It's why some mens
idea of a ladder is
another mans back

And I've
done neither

And if my suffering
makes me pure bring
on rusty halos

Crosses made of
steel, nuts, and bolts
breed industrial saints

I'd rather be a
holy man than a
man full of holes


On break and
the supervisor
joins me for
a smoke

We sit in
total silence
inhaling and
exhaling and
slurping the
cheap coffee

Fifteen long
minutes and
not a one single
word uttered

It's Monday
there's the hum
of a generator
and the roar
of a forklift
wearily heaving
it's load

There's the
metal on metal
dry humping
of machinery

And all of this
says more than


Saturday in America
The sun slowly peaks
over the faded factory
bringing nothing new

Nothing but hangovers
and time clocks, weekend
work to make bread to
get to work tomorrow

Evening with six packs
and uneasy sleep, the
sun quickly will set just
as wearily as it rose

Another day swallowed
by the wrinkled hand of
time and all that will
remain is this poem

About the author:
Wayne Mason is a writer and factory worker from central Florida, when he grows up he wants to be Kannon. His work has been published throughout the small press and he is author of four chapbooks, the most recent Waiting For Magic is now available from

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