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Rating: 4.5

Mornings always end the same, in a car,
on the way to work, done.
Then comes the time clock, the rolling glances to fellow workers.
And as I start the engine lathe,
mounting the metal chunks into the chuck,
I press eight oily hours away avoiding eye contact with Hank,
because one can only take fart jokes from 40 yr. olds for so long
before the whole show of cut-off sleeves and 80's pin-ups falls apart
under the drill bits of boredom and back-orders.

And that's the daylight ensconced in a ventilated box.
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Gregg Stovicek 16 July 2012

Jacob, this poem is fantastic. There are a couple of typos here and there (give it a quick glance over - you'll find them easily enough) . I remember workshopping this with you many moons ago at ye olde Corks wine & bar and I am impressed with the changes you have made (I think you shortened the last stanza? And probably a couple of other things?) . There are a number of very strong lines here: building the future that checks are addressed to and Holy un-manufactured rays from tall windows paint saints / across pursed faces who choke down another sermon / that won't lick their bill's envelopes are a couple of my favorites. Keep it up, brother! You are getting better and better at this whole poetry exercise. Like a fine wine, Jacob, a very very fine wine.

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Kayoko Kan 10 July 2012

Very very good, captures so much, profound.

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