(Need a prompt?"Spandex" -- you don't have to use that exact word.)
G. Macias Gusman is a factory dog, a backhoe for the sun, a champion for splinters and blisters looking for homes on working hands: A Poet growing organically. G. Macias belongs to Davenport Iowa but as given his soul over to Oakland Ca. G Macias Gusman has been a feature reader at Bay Area Generations, Get Lit, Passages on the Lake, Saturday Night Special an east bay open mic, Write from the Gut, and read in the first leg of 2016 Beast Crawl Lit Festival (let’s be truthful if there’s an open mic you’ll find G. Macias) and has been publish in The Borfski Press Magazine, Red Fez, BayAreaGenerations.
Cost of living
The last thing I got me was an Aqualung before I quit my day job.
It only cost 23 hours under the sun at a landscapers pay rate. The
screen that’s holding in my atmosphere last 3 days before a red
dwarf star tittering on super nova implodes in my right writing
hand, burning bigger holes completely through it. I use a left palm
readers’ influence every other odd day turning into S, but like a
leap year birthday I rarely break even. Reminiscent of a hole in the
heart, screens don't burn evenly; they will smolder away entirely;
eventually. A brass screen is a necessary obsidian evil like sea
green cash and, existing ain’t cheap when you’re not cheapening
your existence. I wish things we needed came for free but the stuff
that's free, costs a great living; still, I sold my soul to the words on
credit. You see I like being broke but unbroken, untethered and
free to roam around like a good life recorder should; record-play
are we rolling?
Life yielded a pink slip, hand-job, a little bit of dough, and told me
good luck out there. We parted ways on friendly terms. We’re both
wild cards unable to work together. Sometimes though I hate to
admit, I miss that 12.50 an hour my bad back and simple sweat
brought in when “A Living” sends the red wolf to the black door
and I don’t have that umber rake or tuscan sun shovel to save me
no more as I try to write these poems to the cost of life.
No comments:
Post a Comment