Entry #1: syndical not synecdochal

the night they gave out red beer scarves and toques,

the pub drank like prohibition was coming back

to lie down with bear-market canada.

a few thrusts thereafter she was

born russet and potent, born to make her name

on the picket line, payloaded with a raging

nearlysexual need of her own

to throttle the conveyer belt's

insistent yank at either wornout pulley.

big words aren't cheap, and their prestige

is exploitative unworking. how many disarticulations

or severances comprise a life sentence?

anyone who doesn't use their hands

is a leech, says the poster in her shared office,

or is the phrase reblogged from somewhere? she read

the catchphrase over, from one end to the other end.

how she started to love punctuation! how

she started to love those stops, pauses, snarls at

how little respect they receive.

she spurs the horses to autotomize the cart,

upend the gentry, without stinking of burnt horsehair

besides the white wigs. she works her ass off

and the rest. she's a swarm of worker bees

flyering on/offline with her own sticky entrails,

honey spit, but the bees aren't male marxists, so she's

spent, but entirely.