Wayne Mason

 

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 several chapbooks, the most recent Poet Laureate Of A Dirty Garage is now available from Erbacce Press.

 

Wayne Mason Links: brokenzen.wordpress.com

www.reverbnation.com/waynemason

 

 

HUNGOVER AGAIN

 

They say we

drink to escape

reality and numb

senses but why

hide from this life

that is hardly

even real at all

 

As far as reality

there is nothing

more real than

languishing in

the shadow of

a hangover

 

When every cell

is sick and every

sound is a needle

in your beat head

the sun beats down

savagely and the

only respite is a

soft breeze

 

It doesn’t get

anymore vivid

human condition

becomes your

sixth sense

 

I wonder

how many

hangovers

I can take

 

All the while at

work hungover

again smothered

in truth this sad

reality of existing

 

Staring into sterile

white factory walls

hearing the drone

of old machines

 

Nursing stale black

coffee in paper cup

wishing it were a

stiff drink instead

 

---

 

IN THE MOMENT

 

I don’t want

to live in the

moment I’m

tired of weary

motions and

slow ticking

of time clocks

 

I don’t want

to be shackled

by the bondage

of time

 

I want to

live outside

of this moment

above it

transcendent

of the drone

of the hours

 

I want to dwell

in the recesses

of future time

celebrate past

wax nostalgic

 

Smash the clock

and trade in

eastern standard

replace it with

madman monk

Dogen time

 

---

 

AT LEAST WE HAVE A JOB.........

 

Is a phrase often

heard mumbled

from the mouths

of my co-workers

a blend of truth

and sarcasm

 

In the end that’s

all that can be

said, it’s just

something to

occupy the hours

and years humbly

supporting our

families wrecking

our bodies and

killing our will

to dream of life

outside of dingy

factory walls

 

In the last year

so many laid off

and those of us

that made the cut

toil here like dumb

scared animals or

survivors of a

bleak reality show

 

But yet

at least we

have a job

 

Someone

says we’re the

lucky ones

 

That we are

 

And that may be

the saddest part

 

---

 

BROKEN RECORD

I’m not a

broken record

though sometimes

it seems I am

spinning at

great speeds yet

going nowhere

covering the

same tired ground

ending up back

where I started

singing the same

bleak song

 

I’m not a

broken record

but my throat

is sore from

singing the

blues the poems

don’t change

only the words

images of

factories and

hunched workers

with eyes like

roadmaps and

hands like

sandpaper

 

I’m not a

broken record

I only report

what I see

and the only

thing repeating

its self is a

lonely rock

tirelessly and

senselessly

circling the

sun

 

As constant

as reliable

as time card

swiping a

clock

 

---

 

WAITING FOR THE RAIN TO STOP POUNDING

 

Been working

too much and

sleeping too little

days lost within

the hungry gears

of machinery and

the rain will not

stop pouring

weeks gone by

with little sign

of the sun

 

These are the

times that

suffocate men

no great drama or

epic catastrophe

no heartache or

depression just

overwhelming

numbness

 

It’s always the

quiet moments

like these that

often go unnoticed

sitting in solitude

amid gray haze

watching cigarettes

burn to ash in between

your stained fingers

waiting for a hint

of blue sky to creep

in through darkness