When You Can See The Scales
Art by Johan Teyler (1648-1709)
Part I
An Ordinary Day
My bicycle is from 1974. I dream of clean gears and new brakes. Julia’s kid plays Zelda on the patio in the rain. On screen, the main character battles monsters while out here in the asphalt purgatory of the staff meeting, we hope there are no more battles; we’ve had enough lately. A trailer filled with too-light metal and air that should be clean but isn’t. Unspoken but well-communicated threats drizzle from under the lids of the shiny-eyed man who is going to tell us, all of us, whether or not we can afford rent for the summer.
Kiwi stomps in last, and the anxious fervor in the man’s eyes reaches full tempo. Maybe it’s just the rain, but we steam with anticipation. Three dollars is a lot when you count every grain of rice at dinner. Emily has to make enough to take a pill every day. Pills cost more than rice, and most of us can barely manage that. Chris hasn’t really slept in months, he’s just been taking naps, or clocking off with his eyes closed. The beady eyes of the man who would be king scamper from face to face, and out scuttle kernels of honesty from behind a poorly worn mask. “You refuse to train... scabs?”
Yeah, we’re all already near sick enough from work, the novel specter moving closer every day, it could be between us right now, dancing back and forth between the cloth covers that keep the man’s forked tongue from popping out, even though he still uses it to cut the truth in half. We will not polish the new cogs he bought for cheaper, we will not oil the gears of someone else’s machine with our own blood, sweat and tears. The whole shack of the dishpit already is stained with our grief and frustration. Today, we will at the very least not spill anymore of ourselves for such a small cost. If we are going to buy another house for the reptile-man with his shedding forehead and dangerous gaze using our own labor, we at least deserve a semblance of stability for another few months.
Miles doesn’t want to be afraid of his job. He climbs mountain after mountain, but sometimes the stains of flour and screams and heavy coughing make it all way to 9000 feet. Here in the parking lot away from the sky, paperwork rustles. A cacophony of formality, a swarm of paper cuts and cheap pens bursts forth from the lizard’s skin-flaps, and we sign away our right to work, amidst the rain and the cheap metal. Smug tongues dart platitudes we are all immune to.
The lizard moves fast for a reptile in the rain, but we hold him there, under the bright clouds, we lock eyes. Something resembling fear appears, but is quickly replaced by a cold, dead hunger, and since we have become something other than food, it quickly retreats to the hole, hatching new plans to more lure warm blood into its thirsty gullet.
Part II
Back At The Dog House
a smile beats up a rain cloud/gathered under an open eaves/smoke shaping conversation/a plot/or just a way forward/a line ahead thru the fog/follow me/follow each other/follow forward/those fuckers deserve to fall/google how do you trip a reptile/google quit listening in/google how to talk to ten year olds/google a gathering of magic folk/find us/red wood floor and organized/find us yellow cotton in the sun/we are the weeds this place gave birth to/like or not/and often not/not often do you see such a bloom/after a fire/we are not a phoenix/we’re just good at burns/pass me the whatever we can afford/who said that/who cares/I love you anyway/I love you because we took a walk/what a short walk/what a thought/we were there/and we’re still
here/at the dog house/chasing our tails and howling/for the blood of reptiles
The former Workers of Pie Hole Broadway are a group of experienced and tenacious people in Boise who refused to cowed by platitudes, false promises, and eventually threats. They are all multi-faceted folks with an array of talents and unique strengths to offer.