The rude elements
have dressed your dirt-blessed hand;
do not apologize for that.
Make the rich ones, the clean ones,
shake it. Make them look at your face
and see you: balding, fat,
forearms threaded and popping
with the result of work. Force them
to see your clothes, how thin the fabric
on your jeans, the patches,
the tears. Give them a moment
to take it all in before you smack them
with how you’ve built them
and their multifaceted estates
and holdings. Seize their throats
and gently push upon them
the everlasting schedule
of your simplified days —
how each day you rise, sup,
work, sup, work, sup, and sleep;
a routine broken only by the time you steal
to make children, make a home, or
bounce the baby on your greasy knee.
Dammit, none of the dirt you carry
makes you their sort of unclean!
You deserve a moment of anger
as you count pennies, consider famine,
make do. You’re as much a glue
for this shiny cracked country
as any glitter-fed celebrity
or squinting dollar-breeding usurer;
make it known. Grab them one and all
by their hands
and make them shake, show them
the honest tan under your grime.
If fear is the likely result,
it may be the wedge
to open the door
they’ve kept barred for so long —
and who better than you
to open it? It’s only your shoulder,
so long pressed to the wheel,
that can possibly burst that lock.
Daily Archives: September 5, 2011
Labor Day
Tipping
I used to love her
My significant other
Though I could never balance
the terms of our equation
Which mattered more —
significant or other?
Sublime or ridiculous?
Those fancy words
for incredible descriptions
of cliffhanger moments
Wondering what
would happen next
As the pain heaped up
I waited for the tipping
to settle
It didn’t happen swiftly
I stood there like a stone
identifying with the weight
that kept piling on
with no clue as to who
was doing the piling
But piling continued
by invisible hands
Boxes and cartons and heavy baskets
of things upon things
The view of the scale was obscured
by the weights upon it
and I kept asking what words
were the critical terms —
depressed or angry?
sublime or sublimated?
Bauble or baggage or garbage
or grave-fill?
Performance art
for an audience of two
where both are the artists
or chaos in a crumbling house
while neither is willing to watch?
I used to love her
My significant other
I think that was her only name
My own was as veiled as any she had
so I stopped thinking I had one
anyone else would ever call
Who could see me anyway?
Who would want to see me?
All that heaping and hoarding
and I called it my fault
everytime I called it
I called it
Called it
You’re it, I’d say
You’re it and I need to run
and not come back
I used to love her
My signficant other
The evidence is here somewhere
Under the trash mountains
ranges of gems and flies
and I don’t know what to call this now —
Abandonment or survival tactic?
Cowboy out or snake in the crevice?
Man or beastly little sneak?
I’m a man of four words
My fault
My luck
What could I have said?
Would anything have mattered?
What should I have taken away?
Was there ever a doubt
as to how the scale would shift
and if there was no doubt
shouldn’t I just be happy now
that it’s finally
finally
over?
Dark Matter 