The Work Shift


The fierce face of the sun claws its way over the horizon and does its job until the last sound of its fingernails slip over the rim to the west.  Straight time, swing, graveyard, daylight savings time, the sun marches across the sky.  Set the alarm, march, or die, march and die.

What is the worker’s ripple on the ocean of darkness through which the treasure of the stars sparkle and turn into the crystal mirror of night so we can see into the reflections of one mirror on another into forever?

Goals, career, survival, work to live, live to work.  Work hard, play hard.  Food.

You are what you eat, you eat what you are.

Does the honest, hard working young creature stand a chance under the sun or the stars?  We pick our shift, but did we ever stand a chance?  You pays your money, you takes your chances.

Evening and Dawn, the between times that the voices whisper, the day can talk to the night.  They can chat.  The veil opens.  The man behind the curtain, the shit-show is reveled.  SNUFU,  FUBAR, a cluster fuck.

Work will set you free.  Which concentration camp entry was that over?  Abandon hope all ye who enter here.  That was hell.

The Book of the Law has every star becoming infinite and love under will, but doing what you want has to be part of picking your shift.  Dawn or evening is best; a cup of coffee just when the light begins to shift one way or the other.  Best bring two cups, one to share, it is time for a chat.





About johnsmithiiimxiii

John Smith, IIMXIII is the avatar of an award winning poet, artist, etc. who still lives in the Palouse country of the Pacific NW. He has not received much notice with his prose . . . but as his avatar, I hope that he keeps plugging along.

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