Pink Slip

I saw Lord Jesus Christ
And bare knuckle fist fights
Break out on the work floor
That day.

Some of the folks were mad,
One of the folk was sad,
But most were simpley bored
To tears.

Said the company man,
"The shit done hit the fan!"
Then fucked us up the ass
Sideways.

With his gapped tooth grin
Said he'd do it again.
Surely our pain will pass
In years.

Shallow Waters

I honestly believe that
there's no need to drown
in the shallow waters of our own lives
if we wade in aware and cautious
of what lies just beyond.

I say, leave deeper waters to others-
Dolphins, deep sea divers,
fishes and poets.

For most,
troubles merely lap at the ankles with only
the occassional small wave
wetting the shins.
No problem a dry beach towel can't resolve.

This or That

While lying on the couch
contemplating a bit of this or that
I asked out loud to you,
"Then or now?"
In which you walked over
and kissed me,
your answer obvious
in the smile you wryly
failed to conceal.
The reason for my question
now forever lost
among the curls of your hair.

trailerpark@night.com

To whom it may concern,

Across the street from my bedroom window a

burned out streep lamp that, until last week,

once shone down in a cataratic haze of sickly

yellow luminescence, now towers lifeless over a

recently vacated mobile home lot. Truth be told,

they never stay. With its gutted out electrical box

for a headstone and various bouquets of weeds,

ruts, broken bottles and cinder blocks strewn

about, this patch of dead earth resembles

nothing less than an immense unkempt grave

lying in wait for the next transient soul to arrive.

It's a foundation made not of concrete but of

wandering opportunities that brings them in

and sends them away, most poor of money, luck,

and life. It saddens me to count myself among

them, but I hold no excuses to absolve myself of

why I'm here, even now, as I sit staring at my

computer screen e-mailing the city a notice

about the burned out street bulb; the day's light

long faded, wrestled below the horizon by

darkness. Finished, I hit send, log out, and find

my way to bed knowing all that's left for me to

do is wait for the reply of a cataractic haze of

sickly yellow luminescence to shine once again

outside my bedroom window at night.

Blank Page

It has come to my attention that this page is in fact blank-
absolutely and utterly devoid of anything
that would be contrary to the obvious.

It was verified to me by my wife, Jean
who is an expert in pointing out all things blank to me.

"Babe, you're staring into space
with that blank expression on your face again."

"Honey, please don't forget to take a blank
check with you to the bank."

"Darling, why is it everytime I ask you a simple
question you always draw a blank?!"

"Sweety, you're not getting far on your poem,
your page is completely blank."

As usual she's right, this page is as blank as blank can get.
Perhaps I should jot something down for her to read.

Tell Me When

When can I finally leave this place to my back?
When can I let go the years learning to tolerate the
word home, it's mere utterance sloppy and loose on my lips,

A raw sarcasm that burns in a spoken heave
through my throat? When nostril hairs singe at
the word neighbor, when an ear-full of every passer-by's

love of music set to eleven drowns any thoughts
of listening to the quiet pages of my note pad scratch
its resistance to the dance-writing of my ball-point pen in

an ever searching waltz of prose and epigrams,
when I drag along my wife and kids (be it willing or un,
I can't be sure), my sanity, my misery on a bus full of resentment,

when I know the trailer park ambiance
around me makes me feel like an emigrant on
my own street, when the sickly yellow street lamp

outside taunts my dim optimism of a
fenced in piece of Americanan, when the word community
is said in the same manner as one might mention the word cancer...

When.