to the store.  for toothpaste. for love.

to the gravy. for biscuits…. for    love.

and more i do this, i begin not to care

about being cool or civil or incoherent or coherent.

walked k= down the levvee today. i enjoyed meeting people, especially the homeless.  some others are snooty.  of course, the male in protection of his family, mostly.

i would like to join the coast guard.

  food action newsletter/ br/ july ‘o6 ………………………………………………………………………….. Management seems not to realize the toll of not-enough-people, not-enough-hours, and not-enough-wage. Or do they just not care, as long as they can get away with it?  1.  If we all were paid according to calories burned, most management would receive little compensation.  Not  to say their work is not important, just that the share of revenues is unevenly distributed.2. Our work is sweatshop oppression.  We receive unjust compensation for our labor.  3. We are human beings who deserve respect that goes beyond lip service. 4. The business tactic of keeping labor cost low  allows insufficient scheduling and resistance to budge.   5. A supervisor’s lot should be stress management, for the workers, not for himself.  Certainly, sleeping in the office and leaving the premises to change one’s oil is not right.6. This situation needs to change. I will begin to research how we might unionize, and begin to work for change.  It is possible only if we organize ourselves together.  Contact me: Jeios@mail2hercules.com                                            Most  sincerely, Jesse Hawks.now is the time to stand up. we owe it to ourselves.…………………………………………………………………..………………………………………………………………….   

my idea:  Food Union of Baton Rouge. 

sewern spoolt;  a spool of sewers.  don' like my life.  job, sleep, lonliness.  cleavage and chaffed buttocks.  don' wanna be a man or woman or boy or girl.  Geronimo!  find the lost souls of my psyche and go home.  where occasion hats and cold mugs of beer maintain sovreignty.  amid dixcussions of abzurd logics of charismas and machiavellan religions…

suicidal grimace of customer service.  homicidal wrinkling of management's brow. and tight jeans on my brain.  1:18 PM  on a thursday afternoon.  save and continue editing, save, publish.   foreign objects of veto: debut

this foreign lesion on my eye, customer  service.

i'm no leaden assed brute, u leavened conformer.

soak up the laugh of my muslim companion, ass. 

self-entitlement our mutual lots, this diner's a vortex of assorted sordidnesses. 

@ 11 o'clock:  my 1st day @ work@ a local fast food diner.  I AM HAPPY TODAY.

without corporate nonsense, we still have busyness and business, but not only this…

I AM TIRED.  but and yet more fulfilling…  and valid this work.  AbDUl is a great manager.  this is a great place and heashle meshtell foon; beashlie felmlort shoor;  cannle sabbell morshtelt.

as one says, a job… a goal a look a copp.  don wanna hafta.  to back o' wall now.  and since nothing ventured, nothing.  bruises of arms speak.  partook this morn of "a MG of [penucillin] and … some heroin."   doodles of thought bequeth me…   so then its gone awry

a nd loggorhea is it.  it is.  i venture toward unforeseen abilities and waywardnesses… it is.   mystery is. and was always me.  my words and thoughts and convalescencenesses.

m's asleep on couch, her golden lab Hot Cha just snift at me, m's brother(scott) 's dog TeTonka is scratchin (he's a schnoodle who's native american name means "buffaloe")  Scott and their mother talk about eggs this saturday morn.  i like the pagan rituals.  religious ones not so much.

we don't hafta wanna or wanna hafta.

sojourn a surreal trip in real life: be it.

for to be a pal to people, lorrid & fuschia, foliage and bark.  entrepreneurial socialism of nonsense this. 

lack of judgment art and art of judgement's lack.