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
life.

it kills the birds
and the fish,

but it is so far away nobody cares.

one day-

she will be there,
these
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,
and
her modest dress,
letters to friends,
letters to former friends,

their promises
and
offers,

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.


09'

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

cans

I hear them-

aluminum crashing

against its

brother

like colorful atoms smashing into one another

in plastic bags

I hear them-

rummaging through-

collecting

nuggets

like miners in the gold rush
laying claim to our street.

this is money

others have the thrown out.

dirty money

recovered

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.

09'