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<blockquote data-quote="Floyd Gondolli" data-source="post: 992857" data-attributes="member: 37787"><p>I used to drive those trucks so hard</p><p>and for so long that</p><p>my right foot would</p><p>go dead from pushing down on the</p><p>accelerator.</p><p>delivery after delivery,</p><p>14 hours at a time</p><p>for $1.10 per hour</p><p>under the table, up one-way alleys in the worst parts of</p><p>town.</p><p>at midnight or at high noon,</p><p>racing between tall buildings</p><p>always with the stink of something</p><p>dying or about to die</p><p>in the freight elevator</p><p>at your destination,</p><p>a self operated elevator,</p><p>opening into a large bright room,</p><p>uncomfortably so</p><p>under unshielded lights</p><p>over the heads of many women</p><p>each bent mute over a machine,</p><p>crucified alive</p><p>on piecework,</p><p>to hand the package then</p><p>to a fat SOB in red</p><p>suspenders.</p><p>he signs, ripping through the cheap</p><p>paper</p><p>with his ballpoint pen,</p><p>that's power,</p><p>that's America at work.</p><p>you think of killing him</p><p>on the spot</p><p>but discard the thought and </p><p>leave,</p><p>down into the urine-stinking</p><p>elevator,</p><p>they have you crucified too,</p><p>America at work,</p><p>where they rip out your intestines</p><p>and your brain and your</p><p>will and your spirit.</p><p>they suck you dry, then throw</p><p>you away.</p><p>the capitalist system.</p><p>the work ethic.</p><p>the profit motive.</p><p>the memory of your father's words,</p><p>"work hard and you will be</p><p>appreciated".</p><p>of course, only if you make</p><p>much more for them than they pay</p><p>you.</p><p></p><p>out of the alley and into the</p><p>sunlight again,</p><p>into heavy traffic,</p><p>planning the route to your next stop,</p><p>the best way, the time-</p><p>saver,</p><p>you knowing none of the tricks</p><p>and to actually think about</p><p>all the deliveries that still lie ahead</p><p>would lead to</p><p>madness.</p><p>it's one at a time,</p><p>easing in and out of traffic</p><p>between other work-driven drivers</p><p>also with no concept of danger,</p><p>reality, flow or</p><p>compassion.</p><p>you can feel the despair</p><p>escaping from their</p><p>machines,</p><p>their lives as hopeless and</p><p>as numbed as</p><p>yours.</p><p></p><p>you break through the cluster</p><p>of them</p><p>on your way to the next</p><p>stop,</p><p>driving through teeming downtown</p><p>Los Angeles in 1952,</p><p>stinking and hungover,</p><p>no time for lunch,</p><p>no time for coffee,</p><p>you're on route #10,</p><p>a new man,</p><p>give the new man the </p><p>b*ll-busting route,</p><p>see if he can swallow the</p><p>whale.</p><p></p><p>you look down and the</p><p>needle is on</p><p>red.</p><p>almost no gas left.</p><p>to ******* bad.</p><p>you gun it,</p><p>lighting a crushed cigarette with</p><p>one hand from a soiled pack of</p><p>matches.</p><p></p><p>smile* on the world.</p><p></p><p>BUKOWSKI</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Floyd Gondolli, post: 992857, member: 37787"] 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 SOB 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 the 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 will 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, the 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 b*ll-busting route, see if he can swallow the whale. you look down and the needle is on red. almost no gas left. to ******* bad. you gun it, lighting a crushed cigarette with one hand from a soiled pack of matches. smile* on the world. BUKOWSKI [/QUOTE]
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