A new poem by me: What Being Poor Means

 

                                                       Peep falling down the ladder yet again!

If I publish any of these I'll have to take it down but for now will post it here. When Fat Pat is done, I'm planning an art chapbook/zine of my poetry and art combined. Probably paintings related to what the poems are about. We are sinking back into poverty. My husband just learned of a new layoff to come for one half of his freelance work. This shows really bad economic signals. Think "Depression" not recession. Hopefully he will be able to find more work, but my life is in upheaval yet again with the "bottom falling out". Anyhow here's a poem about what being poor means. 

What Being Poor Means

I think of the brown briefcase

with a million dollars,

my favorite talkative bus driver

found in 1996 under the seat 

I usually sat in. He turned it in. 

Was he insane?

Not on the work schedule that day

this shimmer of change

vaporized.

One slight peek of the green paper

and I would have left the city of 

Big Shoulders that night

for a new state. 

No more bus for me.

God is the angry Dad behind the door

that always says No

and ignores you

My religious years

were spent reading the bible daily 

My pastor preached God blesses those

who obey him

Now pay your tithe of 10 percent!

Some of us never could afford it

I could quote Deuteronomy to Revelation

It didn't fix things

God didn't listen

I didn't care about the suburban house

or diamond ring or fancy vacation

Thrift stores were heaven

We just wanted meaning 

purpose and direction

and the threats to stop.

All the bad stuff came true

as we await another world war

another vat for trillions of dollars

The church family was vaporized

with the crash of 2008

Prayer was begging for the boot

stomping on the face of humanity 

to stop. 

The hand with the Play-Doh 

squeezed harder.

We faked "gratitude"

 but only found it outside

away from civilization

a few sunsets

with red in the sky

above the waters

The ultra rich never lack a dollar for war

and have the money to sell it 

And we are supposed to cheer for the billions for death

in their endless human destroying resets

as we sink under the waves. 

Its time to refuse.

Duper's Delight exploding across 

little troll faces in suits

too many Napoleons with

glints in the eye yearning for pockets to empty

The fraternity rewarded sociopathy

No soup for you!

They don't care about the children

they destroy.

But everyone does what they say

with minds full of coins

cold to the touch 

Grocery shopping in shame with the plastic card

that always says No. Not Today

Guilt for bread as the groceries cost too much

Cheese is a treat from the food pantry

Cabbage for the Willy Wonka grandparents

always boiling and stinking on the stove. 

The farmers worked so hard

but saw instant rewards in black dirt and community

It's having no home, and looking at maps

Where can we pay 500 dollars a month in rent

[to scramble more back] but still find a doctor?

Appalachia? The Upper Pennisula? Maine?

Johnstown Pennsylvania?

One city already died with abandoned houses

and now another is pushing you out.

The poor are the outcasts

and don't even have each other anymore. 

"Lets stay here!" but then how do we survive?

The affluent live in another world

some can't even imagine.

The ones with lands, family and farms want the

safety nets cut away

The ones with good corporate jobs

go with the causes of the system.

The poor are to be hidden away

So they don't talk about them anymore. 

The tent cities are everywhere now

but this time, they don't put them in the news

The new invisible people

all knowing they are not seen.

Hardworking people now with nothing

their car-bedroom 

towed away 

Walmart shuts down the overnight parking

People losing motivation

because getting ahead only

happens for the connected and

superstars now 

and the costs have shot up like rockets.

This country is dying

because the greedy rule

They don't care about us

was the truest statement ever. 

Today I have no mice scampering across the floor

Today there's some food in the kitchen

There's medicine available

The rent was paid on time

but all these things can so easily disappear

One must prepare lest things get wiped away

And that deer in the headlights feeling

never goes away. 

the alone panic

helplessness isn't always learned.

There's a reason people smile less

we all think of escape to the woods now

and a world that makes sense.

They invaded our lives three years ago

and ruined many.

and still there's no accountability

their lies will fill history books yet again.

Standing on that road lost alone in the big city

knowing there wasn't another soul in the world

who cared [before I met my love]

made it's mark. 

We dug, dug, dug out

three times now

to the working class

Up and Down

boxes piled to the ceiling

so many goodbyes

just to survive

There used to be tribes

to share troubles and solve problems

and now there's cold paper

and a few friendly souls

with a box of food

but in reality no money

means others shrink away

Some can hide it until the clothes

start to fray. 

Once a can man always a can man

Those newspapers were heavy

and cookie trays, and wheelchairs

What can we sell today? 

Some poor went to the fairground to sell scraps

I sold a painting to Ireland

Garage sales of lives

and Storage Units of

lost Souls.

. 

This one lady makes videos of the

Hutterite life.

Wish I was still young to convert in.

Grabbing on to

a practical focused life with other people in it

instead of a scattered one jumping from puddle to puddle.

Spare me from modern life

in this body.

A place to belong

Let's join a intentional community

Let's drop out.

"I don't want a thousand brothers and sisters"

We should have done it when we were young.

These bills fly around me like white bats with

sharp teeth. Always threatening to chew me

into a paste, and tear my clothes into rags. 

Some of us don't believe in the system

because it never worked for us

The men behind the desks always said No.

and begging only makes it worse. 

The doors were shut long ago. We lived outside

the fence and could see what laid beyond it

We saw how the sausage was made. 

It changed us. 

My sister's husband makes 500,000 a year

she was a pride to the family

Celebrated and lauded

for the good fortune

of sitting on the right bar stool

married by 19.

In the East they believe in fate

Maybe because so many are poor

There was enough people to say

Maybe I didn't chose this

Maybe it just happened.

Wojack and pals as wage slaves

at least still had their health and

crypto to give hope, Doomer

knows the score of a collapsing

system and the fact the asylum

is on fire

We were so responsible

We tried

but it always fell apart.

Nothing genteel about poverty

and the edges it gives you

that the normal people find too sharp. 

There were so many I wanted to help

At the casino where I've never been, there's lots who lose and a few who win

and the ones who lose, you never hear about. They slink

back to their grey rooms at night, mourning their lost money

Bent over the computer, the dreams of another life

is all that keeps them going.