Two Men In A Dungeon

In a dungeon,
deep,
dark,
two men reside;
two men apart

one man shrieks,
weeps, moans
and sits
chained to a clockwork throne
of slashing blades, of prickling pins,
of spikes, of saws, of metal fins –
any piece that harms and maims,
that plucks and pries
like spiders playing at their game
to change their prey before it dies;

and the other man,
he suffers too,
as daily he wakes beyond the walls,
and commutes the dreadful dampish halls;
to turn the crank that works the blades,
and bemoans the blister his work has made.

The Myth of Rest

The problem with rest is that there isn’t enough;
never the time to feel full, content, stable,
and ready to seek the work out, no,
only the allotted time to feel
the guilt of idleness, to feel
the gnawing of postponed tasks, to worry
that there is not enough time for rest and work,
work and rest,
and some voice says, “work must take precedence,
the swing of pick and ax is all to life,
the digging of this great empty space,
down, further, faster, deeper,
and if you work enough (or if
you inherited the empty pit of another)
perhaps you will dig clean through the crust,
the mantle, the obverse,
and be blinded
by the radiance of some unknown sun.”

Fruits of Our Labors

Two tall glasses of cheap brandy
A view above the catalpa tree,
Wild eyes and empty heads
Dreams of dreaming in our beds,
These are the fruits of our labors.

A man in Cali with three huge yachts,
Puts his toy workers in a concrete box,
Local wines that nobody can afford,
Sipped only by the rich and bored,
These are the fruits of our labors?

We had love when we had time,
Some prisons require no crime,
Some passions have an end in sight
If you want to leave, you’re surely right
These are the fruits of our labors.