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,

they 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.