The Poverty O Everyone

We stopped at the edge of town,
saw ourselves weeping,
eating our meal for the day
underneath dusty summer air
and the paint chips of oak tree shadows.
The ranch lifestyle we live
with value meals and escapism.
It’s all so much bigger out here
when we take to the road with car,
fellow conscripts of celebrities and story,
along this caravan of want and wanting.
I have participated,
traded the Native American-gold-U.S. dollar.

By the end of your french fries,
your hands covered in grease,
to the town, a sink, a bed,
before you rise and work the grocery aisles.
We’ll return to the burned fields of wheat,
sharing small talk and crooked jaw talk
about the government.

You ask me if I’ve seen,
I ask you if you’ve seen…
Something that’s passed us by
we watch on TV.

Nothing More Can Go Wrong, Chicken Tenders

In the backyard is a plow.
No one knows quite what to do with it.
It sits with its wood rotting
and its iron rusted
as a sculptural piece in a flowerbed.
There’s also a grave for a hamster named Dinky,
a stone, here by the plow,
painted with neon green and pink fingerpaint.
The stars are silent.
My grandmother would not agree with the situation.
She would not have any understanding of it.
Her wrists would bleed and her feet would hurt.
She would not discuss a thing.
She would be worried to be in this place.
Her eyes would twitch and her brow would crinkle.
It’d be a look your gut could decipher.
I’m pretty damn scared right now to look at the plow.
I can’t look up.
I can’t look at the garden or the birdbath.
I know the oak trees stand there brooding over me,
thinking
“What the fuck are you people doing?”

I don’t know who is wrong.
If anyone can even be wrong anymore?
If we can even do this or that?
I think genetics are dead or
they are living.

I don’t think we can.

I am a box.

 

Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin

Riddle Kippler

There was one long ago

a human who lived as one

but now the one of the collectively
none
had done the undone
that returns the silence of the era.

The ones and twos stand with shoulders and skin
and worry which is which, who will see

who will see me
do the things I do
standing as such in a way that others may be

looking at me.

I posture and fix my hair, set out,

go to the shopping center, greet, handshake

look out for life as American Idol on TV.

 

Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin

Commuter Train

I have seen her breasts
pressed in between
blouses and heaven,
viewed her wedding ring
turn magazine pages
in the reflection of the
window,

going south on her
morning train
away from her husband,
suburban home, and
children,

into the city for gray rooms,
stale breath, business reports,
and the remnant of
what was human,

going south on her
morning train.

– Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin