Bus boy
Librarian
Blockbuster CSR
Dishwasher
Oyster shucker
Night baker
Librarian
Assistant producer
Movie theater guy
I have now amassed a mountain of man-hours measuring an absolute nothing. Exactly nothing. Never enough to save or spend, and no job skills to add to my assets. I've learned more from the every night hustle with its twists, turns and tricks than the legitimate grind and its vertical walls that owns me for hours each week.
THE FOLLOWING IS A SHITTY METAPHOR I REFUSE TO FINISH
Outside is ice. Ice. Fire and ice. Boiling sand turned to glass by twin helium balls. Ice like the waters of the frozen North, carrying pilgrims who follow behind herds of fur-jacketed caribou. A burning bridge with no return no tracks, trail or color. Ice made of glass like melting mirrors, formed unformed and forming; a twisted white rainbow only the blind may see.
Traces of gold thread through the light, too hot to touch and too bright to conceive. Gold spun in stars and flung out from supernovas, the precious gold collected into the heart of the Machine. The Machine works for the gold, man works in the Machine sheltered in dark and in steel. So soft the light and warm the glow, the gold is all that man knows.
The Machine is a reaper, a caravan of harvest skating the superheated landscape propelled upon jets of invisible steam. A beast made of plastics, ceramics and heat-treated metals the biology of which I will never fully comprehend. I used to stare widely to the heart of the Thing, its spinneret collecting unknown threads of gold. The gold It collected from the skin of the boiling silicon planet whose name I never asked and was never told. The magical heart of the Machine, collected strangely upon the invisible air, floats somewhere between science and love. A spool of hot gold hovering above powerful magnets just out of reach of my soul.
Once, bending between the wires and steel, I slipped my right hand into the core of the Machine. Fingers felt through the electrical web, tingling with the static and heat. The oil from my pores went up in vapor as the history was burned from my fingertips. Ecstasy. Sweet ecstasy. For fragile man was never to know love such as this. To survive on a planet unfit for his eyes, he holds in his palm the heart of an earth. In the heart of the earth, in the heat of his love, his hand and his eyes are turned to vapor, never to know these things again.
Librarian
Blockbuster CSR
Dishwasher
Oyster shucker
Night baker
Librarian
Assistant producer
Movie theater guy
I have now amassed a mountain of man-hours measuring an absolute nothing. Exactly nothing. Never enough to save or spend, and no job skills to add to my assets. I've learned more from the every night hustle with its twists, turns and tricks than the legitimate grind and its vertical walls that owns me for hours each week.
THE FOLLOWING IS A SHITTY METAPHOR I REFUSE TO FINISH
Outside is ice. Ice. Fire and ice. Boiling sand turned to glass by twin helium balls. Ice like the waters of the frozen North, carrying pilgrims who follow behind herds of fur-jacketed caribou. A burning bridge with no return no tracks, trail or color. Ice made of glass like melting mirrors, formed unformed and forming; a twisted white rainbow only the blind may see.
Traces of gold thread through the light, too hot to touch and too bright to conceive. Gold spun in stars and flung out from supernovas, the precious gold collected into the heart of the Machine. The Machine works for the gold, man works in the Machine sheltered in dark and in steel. So soft the light and warm the glow, the gold is all that man knows.
The Machine is a reaper, a caravan of harvest skating the superheated landscape propelled upon jets of invisible steam. A beast made of plastics, ceramics and heat-treated metals the biology of which I will never fully comprehend. I used to stare widely to the heart of the Thing, its spinneret collecting unknown threads of gold. The gold It collected from the skin of the boiling silicon planet whose name I never asked and was never told. The magical heart of the Machine, collected strangely upon the invisible air, floats somewhere between science and love. A spool of hot gold hovering above powerful magnets just out of reach of my soul.
Once, bending between the wires and steel, I slipped my right hand into the core of the Machine. Fingers felt through the electrical web, tingling with the static and heat. The oil from my pores went up in vapor as the history was burned from my fingertips. Ecstasy. Sweet ecstasy. For fragile man was never to know love such as this. To survive on a planet unfit for his eyes, he holds in his palm the heart of an earth. In the heart of the earth, in the heat of his love, his hand and his eyes are turned to vapor, never to know these things again.