Tuesday, August 04, 2009

the eighth continent

in the middle of the ocean there
is a
large mass of trash,
twice the size of texas.

it is where all the trash goes.

it is toxic to

it kills the birds
and the fish,

but it is so far away nobody cares.

one day-

she will be there,
words will be there,
that movie will be there,
the neighbor will be there,
and most politicians
and bored teachers-
her best friend,

her shoes,
her modest dress,
letters to friends,
letters to former friends,

their promises

their love,
their hate,
their absurdity

will be there.

one day i may find myself there,
on the eighth continent.
its president,
its king,
its ruler-

it is where all the trash goes.


Saturday, August 01, 2009

The Scavengers

Its late
Its dark

and the only sound
comes from
the loud rattle of cans.

I don't have to see
to know the
scavengers are going through
the trash lookin for

I hear them-
aluminum crashing
against its
like colorful atoms smashing into one another
in plastic bags

I hear them-
rummaging through-
like miners in the gold rush
laying claim to our street.

this is money
others have the thrown out.

dirty money
from black trash bags,
like body bags-

intended to carry away the dead,
the old
the useless.
to be buried
and forgotten

the scavengers
know no shame in this-
know no pride in this
they know only need.

i feel sorry for them-

only because,
we never have
any cans
in our trash bin-

we know need, as well.
we are scavengers too.


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