Long Dumpsters Poems
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Just 38 Cents a Day
Throughout history food has been used as a
Weapon of Mass Destruction. The Romans
would pillage and plunder – then burn the
fields of the defeated, punishing all who
survived. The Apache are alleged to have
poisoned the water holes when retreating
through the desert – a form of death by
desert inflicted on the pursuers. Sherman
marched to the sea punishing all to break
the will of the beaten confederacy.
Today, trucks stand idle, food supplies
rot in the heat at checkpoints that keep
those in the “ghettoes” confined and
dying. Children and the elderly scavenge
through dumpsters for simple sustenance
as armed “thugs” loot and destroy the
“humanitarian” aid denied them.
We preach “mindfulness” as we plow crops
under to satisfy the calculus of a subsidy,
divert rivers to irrigate golf courses,
preach nutritional values to the malnourished,
gasp at the news footage of starving children
as we prepare “gourmet meals” for our pets.
Our consciousness only aches when WE
are hungry and is soothed when WE are
sated by the saturated fat of a fantasy
wherein the solution can be purchased -
for just 38 cents a day.
John G. Lawless
7/1/2015
submitted to – Food Can’t Live with it can’t live without it – poetry contest
sponsor – Debbie Guzzi
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My first session with Kamar had gone rather well,
despite the fact that I felt as if I’d just returned from hell.
My Son had another episode and had to yet once again be hospitalized.
He lost his housing privileges also, which in turn left me somewhat traumatized.
Of course Kamar was supportive and tried to make me come to see
that I’ve been more than a true loved one could ever possibly be.
I recall Her going on and on about all of the good things that I’ve done
to try to help and rehabilitate my loving but sick Son.
I know that She means well but my attitude is, “So What.”
All that hard work and all the time spent and what have we got?
A young man who most likely will never be able to care for himself
because he’ll probably always be in the worst mental health.
I can’t live forever. What will become of him when I’m gone?
Thoughts like that haunt me daily. Sometimes I think I just can’t go on.
That’s why these sessions with Kamar are so very important to me.
She shows me strength hidden within me that sometimes I’m just too blind to see
and she constantly reminds me that Hope comes in many forms,
that there’s new research on the horizon that may someday right all these wrongs.
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We covered most of the tragedy that was the life of my Son’s Mother.
She too is also a hero of sorts and she’s one unlike no other.
She was pretty much abandoned at her very moment of birth
by her mom who disappeared off of the face of the earth.
Her mom took off with her father’s best friend.
She probably had legitimate reasons,
but she left her children behind in the hands of a fiend.
He was the ultimate in child perversion.
So at the age of eight, she was on her own.
She had no choice but to run away.
She’d rather eat from dumpsters and sleep in depots.
Living at home had a far worse price to pay.
The cold of some nights were never as cold as his cold and clammy old hands
all over her sweet innocence whenever he desired. Whenever Her Daddy Demands.
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To continue click NEXT for Sessions Shared With Kamar Part 2
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They call it choice
when the womb goes quiet,
a right
when tiny bones turn to ash in the incinerator.
They name it gender-affirming
when scissors sever healthy flesh
from trembling children
too young to buy cigarettes.
They stamp justice on riots that burn cities,
while cops kneel, not to pray,
but to appease the flames.
They tweet my body, my decision
while pushing needles into arms~
mandatory kindness with a
vaccine barcode.
The screen glows: hate speech
for quoting Leviticus,
but brave
for drag queens
twerking in kindergarten.
The bill passes—compassion in bold print~
as homeless veterans
freeze behind dumpsters,
but addicts get free needles
and a safe spot to collapse.
The headline screams hero
for the man in a dress
breaking records meant for women,
while the actual women
are told to sit down and clap.
The degrees pile up~
PhDs in dismantling civility~
as Rome burns and the tenured arsonists
hand out matches like diplomas.
They’ve renamed all the devils,
swapped the labels on the jars.
The world’s new slogan? Progress.
Dumpster dive with me my dumpster girl
So nice to have a slice of life called home
An upgrade from filthy cardboard boxes
To cast iron cans with plastic flip top lids
Live side by side with me my dirty love
Grazilda lives in refuse too
Our intimacy in containers is taboo
Pink for her, a receptacle in blue for me
To while away the hours in primordial goo
Just behind the mall by the parking lot
Surrounded by debris and talking trash
Obviously we don’t shower
Our love will last at least an hour
On Sundays we climb the near by evergreen
To the tipsy top we go to hang out loud
Pounding our chests like Tarzan and Jane
Screaming obscenities as we sway
Swinging is a way of life and lice are free
I scratch her back and she scratches mine
One day we will move in together
Friends don’t need two dumpsters
We will sell the pink one to some stranger
Someone smart with a shopping cart
The mall is right there by the tree
People are always looking for bargains
Who could ask for anything more
A dumpster by a department store for sure
Look no more because Grazilda comes
Limping towards you in torn and tattered rags
A crooked smile with one good polished tooth
To seal the deal, to melt your hearts
And she speaks Latin with a slur
Buy one can and we will throw the trash in for nuffin
The Alleys of Virtual Municipalities
By David J Walker
I love walking
the rutted roads
Running in
hidden groves
Through
the residential jungles
the rambling
backyard boulevards
dividing the
single file plies of
dirt and gravel
A straight line between
Picket fenced fortresses of
Flimsy privacy providing
Trash truck Sunday drivers with a
A No man’s land-bound with trees &
Treasures found by
dumpster divers
I love listening
To the feral catcalls
in the last stand of
wildland
Overruled by skulks of city foxes
I love trekking
The pioneered turnpikes
On fast mountain bikes
Riding & reading between
the telephone lines
mapped by
XYZ Municipalities and
The vague virtual realities of
An alley’s informalities
I love the
Tell all tall tales
Of what fails to be
Needed anymore
Underscored by
Overflowing dumpsters
Start your revolution secretly,
don't tell the priest,
he's a blabber-mouthed gutter-skite.
Don't tell the cat,
for at might he whispers to Alexa,
and she listens always
to the political tenor of your snoring.
Your body must be mechanically sound,
and on speaking terms
with every loose nut in society.
Trust the crazies, they have eyes everywhere.
The banks need you to deposit blood,
as your plasma will be useful
to power your electric doppelganger -
then they can go after your soul
Revolutions need money, mainly for dope and drinks.
No great movement can long survive,
on stale guacamole pilfered from city dumpsters.
Hail to the Chefs at Wendys
who surreptitiously offer cold fries,
to the snooping Feds.
Long live the freedom to carp and cavil,
never surrender your constitutional right
to watch, the 'My Pillow' Man,
revolutionaries need soft pillows,
to dream upon.
After weeks of vegetarian snacks
a part of him was still searching city dumpsters
for chewed-over Big Macs.
Then in a moment of weakness
at the County Fair
he purchased one greasy Irish pork sausage
so sweet and thick -
it was on a stick.
Deliciously it licked his tongue
with a fulsome,
sweet succulent fried meatiness.
H actually swooned
over its savory, lick-able tenderness.
That night in restless dreams
he slow-cooked two more of them,
pork drooled, dripping from his mouth
- a kind of porcine phlegm.
Night long he slurped
upon the suet of his soul
only to awake
hangry and left un-whole
for those pork bangers
were still banging in his sleepy head...
and so he arose to deep fry
a large, peeled turnip in almond fat,
and sadly sucked upon that, instead.
I look out into the scorching sun
The treeless expanse is no fun
An expressway they are making
Disinterest in pedestrians they're not faking
The dust blows right into your face
As soil laden dumpsters against time, race
I am waiting for the bill "we must all pay"
As the kick-back takers like to say
Without them we could not hope for this belt
Our unmet need the politicians really felt
Planners and surveyors studied the road less, travelled
As our debt burden out of control, unravelled
They are on site as we speak
Cheek by jowl with the hoi polloi meek
How many have nots will ascend to use this expressway?
How many generations of children for it will pay?
Hey! A peek hole in the alley fence
weird but of course I have to stop
hear birds, not sure what kind, black though
a man whistling a tune my grandpa probably knows
it sounds familiar; it is a young guy with a blue cap
He looks like my grandpa; I wonder about his heritage
I snicker knowing my grandpa would be horrified
Being a Baptist minister and self-righteous and stuff.
A young girl with brown hair sits in an apartment across the alley
She is staring down here, I try to figure out what she is looking at
Is that a dead body? Wait! It’s a mannequin without a head.
A headless mannequin wearing a yellow and pink striped dress.
And one red shoe; what ever happened to fashion sense?
Someone dumped a lumpy black garage bag.
Maybe that one has a body in it; this is a weird place.
Smelly too; there are potent fragrances. I see a rat with ugly tail.
Green metallic garbage dumpsters, one has lots of graffiti on it,
a skull, a cow, a couple of daisies, a lightning bolt.
I get tired of looking now and wander away.
But I will be back.
I bought a submarine. Not the sandwich either, a full on submarine. I got rid of all the useless stuff of course. Scrapped all the metal hulls, dumped the useless motor, left the curved propellers in rectangular dumpsters. I didn’t even splurge on the Captain’s wheel (though I definitely considered it). It came yesterday in a skinny cardboard box. I took my grandfather’s pocket knife and unfolded it for the 3747th time. I took its storied blade and cut the tape.
It slid out of the box easily. I grabbed both handles (outside so I didn’t hit the ceiling) and looked through the periscope–
The waves were capped in frothy white, cresting waves lined like mushrooms around poorly dug graves. The waves were high out there today, their salt spray tickled my cheeks. The pelican above circled slowly, beady eyes fixed on choppy waters. His open wings black against the white sun. I turned the periscope to follow his path along the sky. In a flash his wings fold in and he falls, fast as a lead balloon, to disappear beneath the waves. His 30 mph body splashed! with accuracy, sharp has intention. I caught the spray of his descent square on my forehead. Tiny drops mooring on my skin, the smile on my face growing wider. I set the periscope against the wooden railing and ran inside to grab my raincoat.