THE ANGRY WORLD: Weekend Shift at The Cape Horn Furnace Company

Each Saturday evening when I crawl into work

I glance at the sign in the lobby

Outwardly friendly, casually demonic

The Cape Horn Furnace Company

Warming Souls From the End of the World

I used the Boiler City bars for my heat

Weekend job for some extra coin

Taxman wants my beer money

Ex Wife wants the dog

And my ten year old car

Security guard

Babysitter of phantoms

I hear strange noises

See things that aren’t right

Years ago I traded in my crucifix

For an 18 ounce flask

Just enough to dull the blade on

the butcher knife that is life

Electronic babbling twangs from speakers

on my ancient, dented computer terminal

The Night Operators rule my weekends


Brutal and heartless

Reminds me of the DMV

You have veered too close to the executive wing

The ground of the Platinum Suits is sacred

We would not want to eradicate you

From our company database

Good, stupid employees are hard to find

Except to take a drink

Drunks keeps their mouths shut

I take a swig from the flask

An intrepid conquistador

As I make my rounds, I pass a deserted desk

Thinking of Patagonia

I love her from a world away

The glasses that protect her blazing, emerald eyes

And the crooked teeth in her mischievous smile

I can drop the twenty pounds

but not the twenty years

And Company Policies state

No fraternizing between coworkers

Something scurries in the ducts above the ceiling

I count at least eight legs, hear claws for feet

An arachnid poltergeist from the Land of Fire



I open the door to the executive wing

The Land of the Platinum Suits


A craggy atoll in the  South Atlantic

A sepulcher for the Industrial Revolution

There is something standing in front of a window

My ex wife

A frozen corpse

Her mouth twisted in a death smile


like the refurbished mannequins on the television news

gore on her expensive dress

two hundred dollar haircut burned away

in her cold hand

I notice a leash

I recognize it at once

My drunk’s brain works during tragedies

I have nothing left

Voices from behind me

Not of this earth

We have done you a favor

and given you a warning

Our black magic processors

mainframes conjured from unspeakable dimensions

omnipresent, omnipotent

unholy beings keep unholy hours

We have a job for you

They chant, monks of an inhuman god

There is a raise in pay

If you decline

No need to worry about

Government Assistance

And the company can pay

for the plot in Potter’s Field













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