The Chronicles of Minor Men Part-1

warehousing men gather like fish in the hulls of ships, with carhart's for scales. they steeltoe streamline down to the docks, each in turn with camel ciggerettes in thier gills. mechanically downshifting through diesel juggulars saturated in thick black coffee, they speak in tongues of angels choke.......cry...... and curse. breathing cold air mixed with the smell of dusty wooden pallets. stacked unevenly like crooked steps in jacobs ladder, that do not lead to heaven but maybe another smoke break. inhale.. exhale... import.. export... they offer thier prayers to the rain soaked sheetmetal gods. down where watery ports corrode away railways the rust is crushed and sold as healing balm for the nations. early in the morning you can see them the iron origami cranes folding cold and hollow, beautifying the mens heavy industrial brows.