Thanksgiving. Cooking turkey and fixin's, drinking absinthe, enjoying family and an extra day off from work. Time off gives me space for musing in the morning and I've been thinking of what a nomadic tribe our working class is. We go from good job to bad, from place to place. Morning is also my writing time (when I'm not on the treadmill) and this morning I wrote this:

From the jobs
that alienate and
beat us down
to the work that fosters connection
and back
then on to the ego feeding gigs --
the work that satisfies,
until exiled again to the soul crushing
jobs that kill
or leave their permanent
aching mementos we wander
like loose cogs --
assembly line to warehouse to
cubicle to shop floor
to street our
tumbleweed tribe our
struggling family each
purposefully set against
the other
a nation of nomad slaves
remanded to unsustainable hells and
deluded to powerlessness
dormant seeds
like those of the sequoia
awaiting the fire that awakens
to forge, together
a new and better world
from the ashes of the old.