Konch Magazine - Blues Poem by Michael Gallagher

There is a giant restaurant

it hangs in the sky

I carve my name in wood to clock in

and no one knows why

theres a country that I sell

and a glass view of the street

my neck muscles are sore and my back is kinked

if talk is cheap

then a job is to speak

if walkin' mouth is working 

you should cut off my feat

my pockets they are skinny

though my paychecks fat

they'd call this act inflation

but that ain't the term for that

it's downright human extortion to slave in the word

each poem is a task and the manager burns

it's cigarettes on a lunch break

it's alcohol when your off

it's the begger on the corner 

it's waiters smoking pot

I got tapered open eyeballs

my rusty wrist is shot

but I really like my tiny room

I like my door and lock

the question "is it worth it?"

in our ears and thoughts

I got one solution

for the change of scenes

you gotta' step your game up

you gotta' stalk and kill your dreams

my schedule makes me crazy

i'm a murderer of dreams

i've spread my lips for decades

i'm raped by the machine

whores don't get any love

winners get only green

i'm bitin' back goin' renegade

i'm pushin' back their shove

callused fingers frantic

eyes puffy and red

i'll be your circus sideshow freak

until the day i'm dead

i'm waiting on your order

my tongue will keep you fed