I’m a printer.

  
My back knows what 40 dozen an hour feels like.

My elbows can tell you stories of red polyester mesh jerseys. Poly White sticks to my bones, plastisol seeps from my veins.

I’m a screen printer, I’m a machine of repetition. I am the heating element of an old Brown Dryer. 

My hands are carved from wood and rubber. I drink Emulsion and Press Wash for breakfast.  

I’m a lithographer without a workshop. I cut plates like red steaks.

My hands are heavy rolling pins. My shoes have holes in them, water proof film covers my chest.

All my work is lost in time. If I take too many breaths between prints the water based ink will always harden.

This batch of discharge smells like burnt bleach. The pallets are always too hot in July. Silicone only helps the hopeful.

I need to re-burn that screen. I need to reprint that film. I need to re-set up that film.

I am a relief master.

I need to out put another six color.

I need to white / flash / white / flash / red / light brown / flash / creme / black.

I need to cut wood blocks. I need to cut linoleum. I need to cut wax paper, I cut card stock. I am a printer. I am a machine of the handless. I am the hand of the machineless. 

I know what a thousand jobs a year feels like. Seven hundred thousand strokes a year.

I am a screen printer, I am a period piece. I am an escape artist. I am another portrait of the past. 

I print, and

I write- one letter at a time.

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