What an odd job this is, a brewer’s life, to work so hard for three or four weeks that you have nothing to do this week, which should be nice, but instead incites panic in the financial conundrum of the lower-class hamster wheel, where the faster and more efficiently you work, the less you get paid, so in that desperate claw for hours in the painfully quiet weeks, searching for things to do, you polish stainless steel until the toxic Satin Shine saturates your lungs and turns your stomach, then juggle full kegs with a broken arm.
The road keeps knocking on my door, like a door-to-door religion psychotically collecting souls that they hoard in their salvation lock-boxes to get more wallets in the church; if only it worked out that way for the road.
Knock.
Knock.
This is me staring lifelessly at the sunrise, gently swaying in shadow dance of gusts of crisp, July morning breeze, eye twitching, hands shaking, drool dripping from my lips as they fight to hold a mostly burned cigarette because my hands are consumed with scribbling gibberish filled pages of a soon to be abandoned journal, smoke swirling into my eyes and wringing tears out of my damper soul; I’m not crying; it’s the smoke; endless choir of chattering birds, complaining that I don’t like them anymore, and that I should relate better to a three year old, even though I didn’t relate to three year olds when I was a three year old.
Sunrise birds chattering: everything you do is wrong; do what you’re doing, but stop doing what you’re doing; be different; be better.
Coffee.
Work.
Repeat.
Die.
Friends don’t let friends read Ginsberg
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