May 1st, 1886, introduced the 8-hour work day, the culmination of a very American campaign that was none-the-less targetted and spun by the powers-that-have-always-been-in-power-and-are-still-running-the-show as “Red Ruin,” in the long-standing, propagandist tradition big corporations have always relied upon to turn workers against their own best interests, and into willing if a bit dazed champions of the idea that disenfranchisement and dependency is in fact freedom.
I want to do more than whine about May 1st, 2005, and the remnants of America’s manufacturing sector running shops on a 24/7 clock, or its workers pulling 12-hour shifts and spending off-moments poring over stock market numbers to predict when their company will be next to pack it up and haul it down to Mexico, and from there to China, or wherever there’s a people whose only option is to be freed from their sweat for pennies-a-day, indentured by gov’t stooges easing the way then capitalising personally, incestuously on the transition. I’m brooding yes, on the ways of power and on the lives trampled beneath its steady march, but because 30 calendar days celebrating poetry merge with one day reserved for labourers, I want to praise the artists and workers who strive to reveal the man behind the curtain trading chains for souls and other currencies, the bloody capitulation that ensues, and the surrendering without a fight, for which there’s no excuse.
POET TO BIGOT
I have done so little
For you,
And you have done so little
For me,
That we have good reason
Never to agree.
I, however,
Have such meagre
Power,
Clutching at a
Moment,
While you control
An hour.
But your hour is
A stone.
My Moment is
A flower.