In the factory
wafers gleam in their cages,
green like the carapace of beetles.

Clean-suited shepherds of silicon herds
bend to their work

I am suited, and it is clean
in there, fresh air
controlled in a laminar flow.

Morning Mood

Cake-fed impotence
Snores, dreams in gold
Wakes, coughs, shivers and farts
Rank from the night’s gestation

Preparatory fuss of morning
Unloading on habit
Whatever culpability for the day
Conscience will support
Or denial obscure

Caffeine-slap the system
Though by now
The over-whored synaptic holes
Merely indulge the molecule’s embrace
Accepting payment without
Passion or complaint

I must work
Strapping on the hulking chassis
To fend the impatient spaces
Of acceleration
And speed
Anything less would be irresponsible
In fact, unimagineable