Not long ago I read a passage from a 1989 journal which covered the summer before I went to Durham, England for a year. I was working in a local potato chip factory, an experience which inspired the following poem dated August 11:
“You smell like a potato chip!”
O mecca — hot cheez doodles
I lay them in their bed
your wastage fills the waste bins
and we trail them to the dump shrine
wayfaring proletariat that we are.
what are we breeding
the machine and I?