Weapons of Mass Production by Casey Aimer

Waking at three a.m. for work I do so into silence.

The highway drags are not ready to relinquish 

their nightdreams of apocalypse and the etiquettes 

of existence merely suggestions rising between sleeps.

Arriving to sell my sinew for salary, I unload

trucks of crafting supplies despite timekeepers

existing both as my foreman and competitor.

My miniature frame stacks boxes 

three stories high and I climb them, 

unafraid or simply dreaming 

of plotted insurrection utilizing 

weapons of mass production.

At six a.m. the store games begin,

a mixture of baseball and curling, 

orchestras of breakable commodities 

turned into balls and frisbees.

And if they broke who would know?

Surely us damned ghosts wouldn’t tell.

Us walking machines responsible for 

old ladies’ yarn appearing on shelves

night in, day out, the products only there 

because we willed it, deciding bread for our

families more important than revolution ideals.

We watch the company’s fake security doors deter

community communion for those without credit,

step into work each day more communist than the last.

But specters paid eight an hour do not mind much if

someone seizes and relocates from the craft store

their own means of creation.

Casey Aimer holds a bachelor's in creative writing from Texas A&M and is currently an MFA candidate in poetry at Texas State University. He advocates for radical thoughts and honest questions expressed in unconventional styles.