I remember Larry and me laughing when they had the first cutbacks
in the space program and the NASA scientists were all suddenly surplus to
the needs of the free market. They couldn’t sell their houses because who
wanted to live in
now, to the middle class. To knowledge-workers. They were pencil-pushers
in cyberspace. They used an adding machine instead of a pencil. A calculator.
Remember those old Texas Instrument (TI) calculators that made the slide-rule
obsolete? That happened to the small, desktop computer. I don’t know how.
I don’t know what. I’m too old to be retrained. Too old for the factories.
I outlived my usefulness. I’m a retiree on a fixed income.
There’s not going to be a WPA writers program.
If they had one I wouldn’t be eligible.
I’m not a writer I’m a poseur.
I am exposed as an interloper.
A phony. I’m not the phony,
you’re the phony.
That’s what
they all say.
That’s what Jackson Pollock said
to Hans Namuth in the movie.
I was in a movie. Cracker Jack.
I ended up looking like a racist.
I said there were too many black people
on TV. And they were the…wrong…ones.
Lester “Roadhog” Moran and the Cadillac Cowboys
Live at the
Hit it,
Learn at home in spare time. Specialized postal training.
We’re all suffering pilgrims here below.
Town creeps in each other’s adjoining town.
It’s the managers, the high-value job-producers.
Plenty of volunteers. No barriers to entry.
When are we going to start looking askance at the bastards.
A-skance. They’re dancing on our grave. Class warfare.
The politics of envy. I want justice. I want comeuppance.
I want the invisible thumb taken off the scale. I want slack.
