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.
