Novemeber 30th, 2005

You are drunk, and you are kissing on a girl who is laying under you on her couch. She gets up and leads you to her bedroom.
You get it, so you pull down your pants. There are weird purple/red stains on your tighty whities. She pauses and stares at them.
You explain:
“I was at an art opening and spilled wine, and had no where to wipe it off my hands, so I put them down my pants and wiped
off on my undies.”

November 29th, 2005

I got home last night from the junk mail factory just tired of it. Tired of the paper cuts. Tired of the hangnails that come from the
dry skin caused by handling paper all day long. They put me over on a sorting line, took me off the pallet jack. I love that pallet
jack. Sure, I got a little cocky. I shouldn’t have pallet jacked Sean’s car over into a handicap spot. But he didn’t get a ticket.
And I was on lunch! It wasn’t “right”, per se. No one wants their car put in a handicap spot. It wasn’t part of my job description.
But is it wrong to have a little fun at work? Can’t things just be neutral? Not an acid, not a base? Like in science, you know. Or
funny? Why can’t we have a category of funny? If something’s funny, it shouldn’t be right or wrong. It should be laughed at. That’s
what I think.

November 28th,

Ancient tradition says that you have to talk to the beehive about important family events, like weddings and deaths, or the bees
will feel distant, and leave. Also, any time you open your beehive, you should talk to the bees about their honey and thank them
for it. I had one particularly nasty hive that loved to sting. The little bitches were out to kill themselves. You know a honey bee
dies after stinging. As soon as I lifted the cover these gals were ass out to make me swell. I hated working that hive. I talked a
lot of trash about those girls, and now, seven months later, the hive is dead. I’m not saying my attitude killed the hive. But I don’t
know what did. I went to check on the bees after a month away in Vietnam, and there was only half a pound of bees inside. I
had left four pounds behind in September.

Now,yellow jackets were flying in and out at will, robbing the honey and eating up
weak bees. It was sad. Finally I loved my bees in the bad attitude hive. But it was too late. I came back the next week and there
were probably a hundred honey bees left alive. The guards at the entrance rushed at the yellow jackets landing on the entrance
board, but there was no fighting, no honey bee’s legs locked with a yellow jacket’s as they spun in a circle on the wood, trying
to strike a fatal sting. Too many of the slick bodied thieves were coming in and out. Oh, the poor hairy honey bees! I saw one
lady rear up on her hind legs, and it broke my heart. She wanted so badly for the hive to live.

One week later it was empty.
Sacked. Raped. Honey bee bodies bitten in half by the yellow jackets at the entrance. The brood inside the center frames was
dead in their cells, their all white bodies and eerie purple eyes incriminating me. Why did I tell them I hated them? I will no longer
wish bad thoughts upon the bees I keep in my backyard. My brain is more complex than the wisdom of their ten thousand bodies
working together, so I must be gentle and forgiving. I must not take hope away from those who survive on it.

November 27th, 2005

I am a simple man. I operate a “Little Mule” pallet jack. The junk mail factory pays me. I come home on a bus. I write
tough guy poetry. Eat leftovers from lunch. By now I have on slippers. I have five or six drinks. I go to bed.

Then I got my girl back.

She likes to take drives through the city and look in windows. She likes to take me by donut shops she has discovered and
buy me chocolate old fashioneds. She is very sweet.

We were heading down Geary Boulevard last night, heading downhill on that divided highway part. Someone was tailgating
her and she kept slowing down, hoping they’d pass. They didn’t. “Slow down or go around” she told them. It ryhmed.
She was looking in her rearview mirror. She kept slowing down until she was completely stopped.

This made me nervous. Geary is four lanes of traffic, one way, and we were in the far left lane. It was dark and we were at the
bottom of a hill. The car behind us was stopped as well. The driver was Asian, as was his girlfriend. They stayed in their car.
Parked behind us. Then he backed up. My girl threw her car in reverse and started chasing him. In reverse. The asian guy
stopped. She stopped just off his bumper. He reversed again. So did she.
This happened very fast, and I had nothing to say. They both stopped again, and he got out of his car.
She rolled down her window.

“Why are you tailgating me?” she yelled.
“I wasn’t tail…” he started.
“Yes you were. You were tailgating me for the last two miles” she said, which wasn’t exactly true. Probably six blocks.
He walked towards the car door, and my lady friend said, “Step away from my vehicle. You were tailgating me and you’ll
be getting a letter from the DMV.” None of us knew what that meant. Not even her. But she was still in charge. “You tailgated
me, and you put on your high beams.”
“I never put on my high…”
“Some people carry guns, and you could get shot for doing that. You could get shot. Now go back to your car and have a
nice night.”
It was a strange friendly ending coming from her mouth, and the man did as he was told. At least, he went back to his car. I
assume he had a nice night. We drove away and saw no more of him.

So life is a little different, now that I’m back with my girl.

Novemeber 26th, 2005

Dear Readers, I have started a new series of work called, The Laundromat Poems.

Speed Queen

Dear Friends, the dryer with no clothes in it does not work. It spins, but no heat. There is no money back and punching doesn’t
help. Just look at my knuckles. (They are cut open)

Delicates

When my cat shit all over the rug in the hallway, I brought it to the Laundromat and washed it out.
Can you believe some people wash their clothes there?

Normal

Here’s what I always see in these places: Newspapers folded against their grain and missing the front pages are
in an empty seat. The seat is plastic. The change machine is right above it. Scroungers come through the laundry mat,
slip a finger into the coin return, and come up with nothing. They go to the pay phone and do the same thing. How close
do we have to live with each other? The bulletin board by the door dangles ads in Spanish for rooms for rent. To strangers.
We do what we can to stick together, and we do what we can to keep the others out. Some fold their laundry at home, others
hold it up for all to see.

Permanent Press

Sometimes you see a laundromat that serves drinks and sandwiches while you do your laundry. This isn’t where my mother
took our dirty clothes. All you could buy at her place was colorful little boxes of detergent. They looked like toys. It was always
young people that went to the fun place. It had neon signs and music. I thought someday I would be rich and sit with friends,
eating hamburgers, while the laundry spun in the machine. But that isn’t rich at all.

Lint Tray Fire

How many Americans have a pint glass filled with spare change that they will paw through on laundry day? When
will laundry day become a national holiday? Why are there never Laundromat coupons? Two for one deals, happy
hours, or free bleach? What if we were expected to wash our dishes in a community sink? Would we stand for it?

Dirty Laundry

I used to go to the Laundromat down the block and watch women fold their underwear.
But then the woman who knew which were the hottest dryers caught on, and glared at me. I don’t like that bitch.
She’s always in other people’s business.

Lost and Found

Coin – Op Laundromat
& Lavanderia
6 am to 11 pm

after that, the Jews come in and count the quarters,
my uncle says. He is drunk on expensive wine shipped over from Germany in Styrofoam crates.
He hates the French. He won’t drink their wine.

The Jews count money all the time in my Uncle’s world.
I am curious of them, and hope to meet one someday.

My Uncle drives his new BMW through the city. There is an Italian opera on the
car stereo. Inside the car smells like leather. Nothing in my own home smells like his
car. Money smells different from poverty.

There are niggers and Jews to watch out for all over the place. The Jews have the money, and the niggers want it.
I’m young, but I’m learning. My Uncle drives and wants to teach me.

Novemeber 25th, 2005

I’m working on a future abortion contraption, to help deal with pregnancy that occurs during time travel. It sometimes
happens that the forward motion causes eggs to fertilize themselves, because the womb is winding up like a clock. It is
possible with alligators when the temperature changes quickly back on earth. If taken to term, the child will be chalky,
and crumble if dropped.

Novemeber 24th, 2005

Fresh air interview

This is Terri Gross. Today on Fresh Air we talk to Jon Rolston, self proclaimed, “tough guy poet of San Francisco”. Jon,
it’s so nice to have you here. Can you tell us how tough guy poetry got its start?

Jon Rolston, tough guy poet: I got thrown around a lot by bigger poets once I left New England. New York, they don’t fool
around boy. I got punched out at a reading when I tried my sci-fi stuff. That’s when I started turning cold. Turning into a tough guy.

Terri Gross: So you were a poet of a different kind, and had to morph into a tough guy? What was it you were before this
metamorphosis?

Jon Rolston, tough guy poet: I believe I was born for poetry, but my life shaped me into a tough guy. That’s the short answer.
To fill in the blanks, I was born and raised in Greenland, New Hampshire, a small ice fishing town with a strong connection to
the Viking invaders, and their legends. So I got my start writing Norse-God poetry.

Terri Gross: The Vikings are said to have explored the area hundreds of years before Columbus.

Jon Rolston, tough guy poet: That’s right Terri. You have to understand, New Hampshire is under snow and ice for six months
of the year. There was nothing for the Vikings to do, and I wasn’t much better off. This was pre-cable and VCR. I was a
hundred years behind mainstream America. I mean, you can’t skateboard on snow or a dirt road, right? I had no idea how
dorky Dungeons and Dragons was. I just knew I loved to play it. So, it wasn’t long before I was writing Science-Fiction Poetry.
I know now the mainstream world hates both science fiction and poetry, so to be combining both these genres? I was asking for it.
Writing poetry inspired by David Lunde. I was a sure mark for the Poetry Slam folks. They tore me apart.

Terri Gross: David Lunde is one of the notable poets in the very small field of Sci-Fi poetry. In fact he is winner of the
Rhysling Award, which is the major award for Science Fiction Poets. Would you mind reading us a poem inspired by him?

Jon Rolston, Tough Guy Poet: No, not at all Terri, although it is a far cry from my work today.

Fatty Acids

It’s another solar system
centered on a meat eating sun.
The children’s fat melts in heat,
Floating through an atmosphere of grease.

Stones are made of lard
The sun shits down.

When grease fires ravage the land,
The children run into the lake,
And breathe underwater
Like earth children in the womb.

When they grow old, they float
Towards the sun, which will eat them. but no one thinks of it as death.
Little children squeal with excitement, and call to their parents,
“Teach me to fly!”

Terri Gross: That’s great. Very different from what you do now. I guess you were pretty young when you wrote that.

Jon Rolston, tough guy poet: I was young. That’s a poem I brought with me to New York. It cost me a few stitches in my
eyebrow.

Terri Gross: You’ve mentioned before that tough guy poetry started in San Francisco, but it sounds very New York. Can
you give us a brief time line of your poetic development?

Jon Rolston, tough guy poet: I’m not good with dates, but I left home in a Vanagon when I was 20 years old, just going to
the world. Trying to do everything, see everything. I was a Romantic, trusting, a public school kid from the country, raised
on well water.

I had more men trying to fuck me than I can count. But I didn’t even catch on. I was just looking up at tall buildings. I was
looking for life, and everyone around me was looking for money and sex. That becomes life for us all, I suppose. But for a
little while we are dreamers.

So as I drove across country picking up hitchhikers - I took in the stories of these guys missing fingers, Leavenworth alumni,
tattooed Mexicans. It seemed like life was a very tough thing. These guys weren’t talking about sci-fi. It was horror. It was crime,
drugs, escape. But they seemed happy. They weren’t telling me to get a job, or asking me about school. I found my muse. My
heroes.

I drove all the way out to California and started cowboying, building horse fences, chicken coops, grading riding rings. Now
I was putting that writing energy into stories about that. It was the everyday, as far from fantasy as I could be. It was inner space,
not outer space.

It took a few years, but I eventually made it up to San Francisco, to be a writer. By that point I had learned a bit about how the
world worked. I had gone to the world, now I was ready to bring something to it. Being in San Francisco allowed me to look
back across the whole country and see my experience. Tough guy. It was something I had become.
It did start on the East Coast, as a reaction to my travels, but it was in San Francisco where I realized what I had become.

Terri Gross: What was it about San Francisco that drew you to it?

Jon Rolston, tough guy poet: In New England, the most despised man is a homosexual. The second most despised is a poet.
If S.F. could love their gays, I thought they might not mind having me and my poems around.

Terri Gross: A lot of people expect poetry to have a certain sound, a certain look, which yours does not have. What do you
say to the critics who claim you aren’t actually writing poetry?

Jon Rolston, tough guy poet: Well Terry, I would have thought by now the general public understood poetry doesn’t have to
rhyme. So why does it also have to look like a grocery list? I write my poetry out like a paragraph, okay? If you ask an average
t.v. watching Joe Six Pack to write a poem about donuts, they will start it, “Oh, donut, with your beautiful sprinkles of
sweetfullness…”.

They will write it out

Oh donut,
With your
Beautiful
Sprinkles
Of sweetfullness.

And we recognize it as poetry because it is spoken with that weird tone of voice and it is written down in a poetic form.
What is this communal well of bad poetics people go to when they write? It makes poetry cryptic, longwinded...how do
I describe it? Dumb? Is poetry required to be sentences with strange noun placement? It isn’t English anyone uses.
Should poetry have a formula? “My sentence, strange, now turning, becomes poetic.”? Do I have to use that voice to
write poetry?

When I pick up a collection of current poetry, I get through three or four poems and still don’t know what I’ve read about.
I’ve been given a few cool sounding sentences couched in seven stanzas of personal reference I can’t possibly understand.
I’m interested in poetry that anyone can read, and everyone can learn from.

Terri Gross: Do you feel tough guy poetry is what most people want to hear? What about the charge that it is misogynistic?

Jon Rolston, tough guy poet: Most poetry is written for the world of inbred poets who are pushing the breed to hip displacia
and hairlessness. I’ve got a new poetry the guy with cauliflower ear can get the first time he hears it. Tough guy poetry is the
first realization a tough guy has emotions. So yes, these first emotional responses are stunted. Uneducated. Rough. But it is a
first step in becoming fully emotional. I have no idea where tough guy poetry will go, but at the very least, it is a fresh spring of
poetry. It opens the world of poetry up to a lot of people who were locked out.

Terri Gross: Where do you think tough guy poetry might go? Can you give us an idea? Where would you like it to be in ten years?

Jon Rolston, tough guy poet: Terri, in ten years I want to be reading at monster truck rallies and gun shows. I want duck hunters
to be thinking about poetry while they are out there on the water. If they are connected to what they are doing and still pull the
trigger, I won’t feel bad. I won’t feel bad for the bird or the man.

Terri Gross: Jon, I want to wish you luck in your work, and thank you for coming on the show today.

Jon Rolston, tough guy poet: Thanks for having me on Terry. It’s been a real pleasure talking with you.

Novemeber 23rd, 2005

Your daughter was aborted and your robot is pregnant. Can you see that far into your own future? The mid wife in your barn
cornered you. “Who knocked your robot up?”
You stand your ground. “I took notes in biology. I know we are machines, chemical energy, inter-operating systems based on
carbon, the stuff old copy paper was made of. Carbon! An Element! ANIMATION! My EMAIL can MOVE! So BACK OFF

Novemeber 21st, 2005

My father was a jizz mopper ten years before I was born.

his career,
In and out of prison,
on and off the wagon,
up, down,
back & forth...
round and round more times than
an old Ratt album.

But he was a decent father to me,
and when he died he left me three five-gallon joint compound buckets
full of sticky quarters.

After his landlord threw his furniture out,
I went to the liquor store and bought a plastic bottle of rum so big
it had a handle, and I spent a whole weekend rolling his old coins in green paper
sleeves. It looked like a toll booth heist when I was done.
There was enough there to put myself through pallet jack school
and ever since I got work at America's largest junk-mail manufacturer,
I haven't looked back, or felt any shame for my father
the jizz mopper.

Novemeber 20th, 2005

Robots with faux-hawks.

I remember when we dreamed about having robots to do our work for us. Now I have one, and she’s lazy, and
too emotional. I hurt her feelings and she won’t wash dishes.

“Christina, will you clean up the dishes while I take out the garbage?”

“NO! I DON”T LIKE IT!”

“LISTEN HERE YOU ROBOTIC BITCH...” and she hits me. I didn’t even get to finish my sentence.

It’s so confusing. I built her myself, and I love her, but now she is building herself. I wake up at night to pee,
and she is in the kitchen hot dipping wires and installing a third eye.

"You won't be able to make this one cry," she says.

Novemeber 19th, 2005

Can you tell from this photo that this woman has large hair? Well, she does. She wasn't the only one at the Miss
Trannyshack Pageant who did, either. My, my, my. What a night.

November 15th, 2005

Novemeber 15th 2005

If We Are Giants We Must Watch Our Step

We are starting a club. Because Steve says I look like I’m president of a club. Dave wants two names to choose from. Steve
wants a manifesto. Dave doesn’t want to get political. “But what is our purpose?” Steve asks. Dave says we should have back
patches and meet up for drinks. “We’ll be the Burning Eagles.” Steve says. He also wants organizational flow charts. Steve gets
up off the couch and sits on its arm. Dave in turn lies down on the couch. “Maybe we can make some money!” Steve says. He
raises his eyebrows two or three quick times. He goes to the kitchen looking for “low grade fizz.” I ask if that can be our
password. “It could be a password or a slogan.” He says. Dave’s eyes are already closed. But he says from his sleep, “We
need to get school pictures done.” Steve comes back with his drink. “That’s all she’s got,” Steve says, giving the bottle a shake.
“Check Dave’s wallet. He’s asleep.” I say. Dave swings his feet to the floor, sitting upright in one long motion. “I’m back” he says.
“What are we gonna do?” “Drink more,” Steve says. “Let’s go to Cala.” I say. It’s a grocery store. We walk to Cala and buy
whiskey and scratch tickets. I check the scratched ones in the trash. “People come in totally wasted and play these things.
I always check the losers for winners.” We walk to my house again and go back to the living room. Dave says he hasn’t really
slept in three days. Not a normal sleep. “I go to the supply closet at work and sleep on the floor, but it doesn’t have a separate
light switch, so I can’t get the light to shut off. And it has a humm.” We smoke some pot and drink whiskey and Coke. All the ice
cubes are gone. I say, “I can’t wait to be finished with this and start doing something with my life.” Steve says, “You don’t ever
stop feeling that way.” What he says rings in my ears. I think of all the important people on prescription drugs, and believe him.

Novemeber 10th, 2005

I want to help homeless people increase their profits. If they can hold up a more effective sign, they'll
make more money. Next thing you know, they're off the streets. I'm using marketing to cure homelessness.

An often overlooked aspect to panhandling is the size of the sign. This afternoon I am exploring the theory that
a larger sign will give people more time to consider a donation. So I painted a sign taller than the sedans, something
legible from two blocks away. Seven feet tall by five feet wide.

This was a bit unweildy. The laughter from passing motorists as I tried to hold it up did lead to some sympathy spare
change, but in the end, this sign has exceeded the limits of intelligent design.

From 5:15 until 5:45 I earned $4.33, a caffeine free Diet Coke and 2 pieces of Kentucky Fried Chicken
with the buttermilk biscuit.

My sign was the classic plea:

WILL WORK FOR FOOD

Six people took the time to stop. No one asked me to do any work. This is the first step in what I hope will be many more
field research expeditions.

When I finished up my begging, I crossed the street to pass on the KFC a kind woman gave me.
(I ate the biscuit, I love those biscuits, but Kentucky Fried Chicken gives me the runs. ) A regular panhandler I've seen
for years was out of his wheelchair, leaning up against a cement girder. He saw me coming and laid into me.

“What the fuck you got goin’ on over there? I’m trying to get to work, when the fuck are you gonna finish up?”

It wasn’t intimidating, because the man is missing a leg and is skinny and drunk, with scabs on his balding
close-cropped head. Plus, he was out of his wheelchair. He couldn't chase me. He was pissed though, and kept talking…

“I’m waiting for you or the other one to move so I can get out there.” (Someone had taken the good coming-home-from-
work-heavy-traffic exit before either of us got there)

“You want some chicken?” I asked him.

“Shit yes. I’m hungry. Fuck. I’ve been sittin’ here all day, it’s starting to rain.”

He was really missing a leg. Sometimes you see a guy in a wheel chair and you figure he’s got it tucked away
somewhere for effect. But nope. There on the cement, he had no where to hide it. Just plumb gone. From way up.
It looked to me like it was gone from the hip on down. Was there a set of nuts under there, or was he missing one of those too?

I say to him, “I’m about finished up, I’d give you my sign, but I think it’s too big to be much use.”

“Fuck no, I don’t want that thing. Too fuckin’ big, what I’m gonna do with it?”

“All right brother, take care.” I said.

But he was already into that fried chicken. His white skin was brown from dirt and red from scabs.
He looked dirtier than the sidewalk itself, down under the over pass, where folks set up tents and tarps over shopping carts.
Then call it home. Down here everywhere was a toilet and decent folks didn’t come this way. This wasn’t an easy life, even
if people did hand you money from a car window.

Have you ever let your diet slip, and eat lots of junk food and drink beer? Do you remember how your poop turned out after
a few days of that? It wasn’t very solid, I’m gonna imagine. Kinda smeary. Now, have you ever pooped, and not quiet
wiped right, but were in a rush, and didn’t finish? Do you remember how itchy it got?

Put it all together, that day after day you are eating food from garbage cans, or people’s take out scraps, and drinking
cheap pints of vodka and forty ounce malt liquors, and then, when you take a shit, you might wipe a little with newspaper,
but that’s it. And you don’t shower much.

I explain this, because I know some of you youngsters are thinking, “Maybe it isn’t all bad, being homeless, tramping,
sleeping under a bridge and panhandling from working class suckers.”

Just think about how inflamed your asshole will be in a few short weeks.

Some of those women alone in their cars, they gave me the same eye I give the hookers down on Polk. I could see
them thinking, “He looks pretty good, I bet I could take him home and put him to work.” Those little smiles, their eyes get
small, a slight turn of the head. I know that look ladies, and I like how you think. Do these homeless guys get much action?

I was wearing jeans and a t-shirt, and my work shoes. I wasn’t skin deep dirty like the one legged beggar propped up across
the way. I was looking like I just got off a job doing a deck, and needed a few bucks to get through the weekend. I look well fed,
just a bit scruffy.

Women gave me money. Every time. Construction workers, four in the bench seat of an old pick up, tools in the back, just looked
at me. Then drove on. I could read those eyes too. “Piece of shit. What a fuckin’ loser. Will work for food? Bullshit.”

They hated me. The rich in Jaguars were on their cell phones. Didn’t need to make eye contact. I didn’t exist. My sign didn’t
catch their eye even. I’m six foot four, and my sign was taller than me, and they weren’t even curious to see what was happening
right outside their door. The type of shelter that comes from money is something the poor can only hate. It seems so total. Total
protection.

One woman started to hand me a caffeine free Diet Coke, but the light turned green, and her husband pulled away.

“Just throw it at me”, I said, and she did. It hit the ground and dented. I don’t even like Diet Coke. Take anything you can get,
find a place for it later. I was already feeling desperate for any sign of help. That is why you see homeless people with shopping
carts full of appliances, records, mirrors, things they can’t possibly use living on a street. Because material objects seem to
hold value, even on the street, where the value drops incredibly fast on everything, even life.

I walked home, and two people asked for money from me. I felt like punching them. Sometimes I want to scream at beggars,
or kick the drunks passed out in the street. I’m not sure where it comes from. My first guess is a false sense of superiority.

I walked into a store and felt cleansed, like I was back among the normal consumers, and people were no longer looking at
me like a pile of shit. I might not have a dime in my pocket, but I wasn’t asking anyone for anything. I think panhandling is the
toughest job in the world.

Novemeber 7th, 2005

My grandfather fought in World War Two. He came back from the Pacific to New Hampshire.
Back home he battled his liver. Beat it to death.
Died before my time. And I don’t even know what he liked to drink.

November 5th, 2005

Child Development

I wired my child
Clicked jesus.com
Downloaded emotion
Spiritualized the machine
Filled my son with faith

There must have been a virus
my robot is pregnant,
and my son had her last.

November 3rd, 2005

The junk mail factory has a photo studio, where we take pictures of things for people to buy. I work
a pallet jack, bring great pallets of colanders and salad spinners from the warehouse to the photo studio,
roll armoires and credenzas down a hall wide enough to drive a truck through, handles and legs of furniture
poking out over the wheel base of my “Little Mule”. I am one of the few guys on the crew who likes a two
wheel dolly, but I rarely get a chance to operate one of those. We stack a lot of product on the pallets and
start moving. It’s tough guy stuff, but I’m not afraid to let the boys know I am a poet. I grabbed their attention
after lunch with a twelve box of donuts.

“Gentlemen, I’m gonna read my dozen tough guy donut poems, and I want to share them with you. Come out
to the loading dock in twenty minutes and have donut and take a minute to listen. Thank you.”

Old Dan the camera man took a picture of me. Awful nice of him. We all get along good at the factory. We
have a lot of heavy furniture to lift, but we got the right equipment, and we got the right training. Shopping makes
people feel good and it keeps me working. No, I’m not saving the world, or even conserving our earth’s resources.
But those donuts were good, and the boys all said they liked my poems.

San Francisco tough guy poet eating a donut, reading a poem, standing on
the back of a truck at the warehouse loading dock.