Who's Technological Revolution?

I damn near fell asleep in the truck for a buck Riding Shotgun out the Pittsburgh Parkway smogefog Shame on a laborer who's skull won't let him deam A drunken ego natural enough to dream But how was I to know... That Whore House Restraunt "Jolly-John's" show Would be nice this morn without rot and a bus boy yet- No yellow yoke left like a Sea spirm Seal Giving one the face of a river Cat Fish For a cat to lick up who would not- Made the table different from weekday Granting great quality to each quarter tip This five o'clock Saturday: For us; morningmoorment overtime pay Brick lay'in World War II tank driving "Devil Dan The Furnace Man" With 57 aged varieties of stomach desease- No less caused over-worry from leg Phlebitis Long before Nixon When Dan had stopped drink'in ...And laborer eight child father Hungarian Joe- Of all mighty ages -- knowing that in this one - To wail a man means going to jail As his conversation allowed a wit beyond concentration Instead of past problems educated in the crags of his face While I see myself defending the Welfare Program And... we corner nodded watched; like on the fascinating nibble by a derelict's last tooth A big beautiful shoulder boned white girl's back to our booth, with two terrible black men smiling with love- There; avoiding the snarl in a stare That swirling worker's head bent recognition To the final served coffee always with a strangers "thank you" Had us sent... through the cash register "usual" Again; out into the dark Ohio River January wind On our way in we had mentioned the fortune of stars And now certainly out - there was dim JUST FOR LIGHT... on the skim of six o'clock dawn; that had us on iron below vast riveted corrigation ATOP the spanking new furnace of our domain We would with chemical castable pour A ceiling able to eat up for sure The power blazed within locked flames While we all on our psychological own on the last wild figure of eighty bled into the sound That stopped the count of lined furnace:

These are the ten hour houses of pronged men Possibly but slowly changed Or simply rigid with fittings for fingers And now the first metaphor using a yesteryear, that would not consider an alloy within iron In wheels turned by mules; while up to our time, the subtle lethalness of gas can do the work (And only for modern costs does the image remain extinct from distruction) As each wheel still reels up its smashing hammer To "force drop" -forge out- super farm equipment: To cooly be shipped out of a cast Ment to cast out farm labor- While my failed normal vision Increased into the perception of the new man's menace industral Contimued from Dante's disected forms- Born out of the huge wheels; to be like William Blake grown: Ironically cut on the curve at the risen brim Below my mind along a tiny blocked wheels rim Giving to science another easy image: (Of never shall the old roll forever) When, a physics unseen has made production move faster Under; the strain of a laborer's "piece work" with no peace at all For the ruin of lazy sin... to the sin of immaginations ruin And sworn alone to his lost moon No part-time apple farmer can be Able to see... Enough rayed light of the sun through the union To ask to know about abstract revolt While any bolt of lightening blowing brains Exists in a spaced steel space way under space Living over the worker like a tracer Where from behind some kind of mind Absolutely disengaged from, "seek and Ye shall find" This FORGED FORCE also molded a mental mutation -to the very place of particular function- That eyedropped children Are whispered wanely too... Not to pursue:

By seperately organic women Secular only to their men Who's touch on existence I saw holding the women to their homes Over the mist where it was faintest on another "Heavy Hill" Through an expansive new aluminum door gap AT THE WAY BACK opened out from that sleeker extentioned grip Modern Mill Men usually refer to as "The Plent" And viewing that shivering splice; of also a summer's shimmering world I wondered of those threshold ladies Somehow above the river and railroad While wooden housed tamed together Along the scrub treed ridges edge of milltown IN IT, washing yesterdays cloths for tomorrow While through a deeper rotunda of steam sound They peered vacant eyes worthy down Into another "fired up" progress valley That would smash any lens shooting their Hellish Men This of course, "Coraopolis Pittsburgh Forge" While across the bridge North over the river within the antiquated wealth of Swickley town; a maid's facial remains might stop a professional clown, while she cleans Burbon off management lace RIGHT ON THE SET OF THE SCENE: I would have cracked from fear if not distaste Had I not known through her poem: Ya' can't: "And I dreamed... how our garden would be- Come spring... when I would see My man with his beer In the day-off lounge chair He also being King All abiding to his first breath in marriage; that never would we hock Grandmother's gold ring" "Ya' can't; run out on a brick-layer:" As that last of the four in the morning Vodka Hallucinated humor in this head Till it twitched a mind to turn in crook this impossible neck to the roof///

And here at seven There was light on the middle ages again For through a sly/crack in the tin A lucky days daybreak showed my Fluorescent blue bulb of a sky