Unanswered Poem by Jacob Bearer

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,
automated,
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.
That's the work of snickering men
building the future that checks are addressed to
and where children are raised.
And when the punch clock snaps to 5PM -
to the saggy eyed cheer of machine shop laborers -
the evening fades into Home Depot trips and lawn grooming.
But, do not ask the question, 'Why? '
That 'why' that shrivels utility bills into wooden crosses;
that 'why' transubstantiating gains into losses;
when all the lathed parts mound higher and higher
and a life's work is weighed on ink and paper
we call down an eructated epiclesis over Carharrt stoles:
'Holy Ghost, bless and approve this forgetfulness
leaving our thudding souls thirsting and unasked.'
Then the unshaven priests of post-modernity
raise their shooters around a soggy bar
as they hope to forget the UFC match they're watching;
with the next round won by Milwaukee's Best:
in white lettering and blue trim.
This is the American Dream that snuffs out a day of fluorescent lights
with bare knuckle fights. And when the paid fighter's lights go out,
knocked out, we whimper inside, because that minute hand within
keeps moving towards Monday mourning.
And, so we stagger into bed and pray over her thighs
that slow down to an undulating high;
till the alarm clock buzzes and our day ends.

This is the Mandala of seven billion beating hearts.
And if you close your ears and eyes,
shutting out the shift of asphalt and rebar,
you can feel the globe lift and fall; palpitating
before the stars dressed like smiling Tibetan monks,
who sweep the world away
leaving empty the chest cavity of the universe
(a space small enough to fit the question) .

My coffee, listens atop my humming machine, draws rings
in its dark complexion. Hank and I, over the incense
of two Camel Menthols condense a weekened into the ten minutes
that it filled, condemning ourselves to spend the rest of the day
wondering if our wives made our lunches of wheat or rye.

Ten thousand years ago a group of bent African weavers,
sending their threaded shuttles back and forth through frayed sheds,
wove lines of stories into tapestries of red eyed figures
and dreamed of a day when work wouldn't loom over their play
(and bad puns wouldn't mock the oneness of searching
that pulses through us all): sending hopes
to a forgotten 'something', begging for an answer.

"The misses dragged me to the BED BATH & BEYOND to buy new curtains."
That is the news that Hank Blitzer reads off the teleprompter,
the weekend updat that I find myself asking questions about.
"What did they look like?
Do they fit well with your white picket fence? "
They were blue, long and frilly.
And that's when I laugh out:
"Since when did the ball and chain start dragging the old man ‘round? "
But that jab was only met with Hank's narrowed eyes.
This is the worn shuttle that weaves the day long
the tangled mess of unskilled button pushers paying their debts.
They're nice curtains that'll need replacing.
And the ancient story goes: out lives measured by a slag heap
of curtained windows.

Yes, on Sundays we clean our fingernails and part our thinning hairs.
We shake hands with the greeters and paw at our chairs
like pinstriped cats nestling onto some empty comforter.
The skeletal preacher mounts the pulpit and blares,
weaving his work day with Salvation.
Spinning out virtues like those African queens stringing their looms.
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;
a whole stack kneeling on their kitchen tables.
Margret, waiting in her Cadillac, counts her beads
until the sanctus bells ring,
then she processes past all the vans and sports cars
offering her own benediction.
And when her envied exhaust wafts through the church windows
the whole lot of parked cats start lifting their coat sleeves
and tapping their tails. It's the day of rest
that got raised to first rank
then fell back to just another day;
when the raven tells of gold mountains in the sky.
But, when the priest waves our calluses goodbye,
we don't ask why, we do not ask why.
This holy day mouths its answer to us.
We strain our ears, like Margret waiting for that bell toll, but
nothing; nothing until the alarm buzz sounds
then nothing but drilled metal for the work of the day.
Is this the eternal return? we are here to shave stock down to pipe
to birth another life
to fill the factory line and pew?
Is this the story needled into the beating of our souls?

...

The other day, while the sun tiptoed west of a scene,
I drove passed a brick alley filled with shouts and stomps
that echoed out to my ears and flickering street lamps.
Heroic, I parked my car for a nickel,
re-swallowed my stomach, and glanced within the red cavity.
All I found were footsteps sprinting away
from a thin junkie in a scuffed jean jacket,
lying face down with his outstretched arms
catching the blood that pooled from his torn side.

And I stood. Stood and held my breath with is, until I exhaled
alone. With the meter running out, I took one last look inside
and spent the rest of my car ride home from work trying to forget.