Heat sizzles across the naked desert dying under the crackle of the sun. The dust and decay, the ghosts of trees long since uprooted, the ashes of smoldered embers where forests fires bleached the hillsides beige. The stale diesel filled air, the snakes slithering in the scorched desert sun. We wait. We wonder. Casting a pale on the city steps alone, aghast, calling out in terror, superstition, rage and disgust. Pushed forward, in even parallel freeway lines, with every man to his metal cage. Without family, hope, disoriented and blind, assailed and beaten to work harder, faster, meaner, more. I wait. The global temperature pushes upward.
All we know is the whip. The constant lash, the pain the sores on our backs, our chest, and sides. The old scabs oozing with fresh pain. The hurried glance, the indifferent sneer, the memories of barked orders, callous hate, and sexual violence. And we know the eyes of the overseer on us at all times, the whip in hand, the gun at the hip; the cameras, the cops, the helicopters, the drones. So we work and never tire. And the profits are up.