Dirt

we survey the land

carve out dirt

what is ours

will own us

one day

#5lines #tanka

Cardboard Boxes

the move is done,
from may to july,
from country to city,

cardboard boxes taped full
of stuff you forgot you
ever owned or regretted
buying
on sale
had to have
garage sale deal

better off without
if only there was an available
dumpster

for the bullshit.

endless forms and papers
that protect banks and
mortgage lenders
from losing their precious pennies
they want to lend to you with
a smile
and a blue ball point pen.

borrowed and leased
vehicles, some packed efficiently,
others
oh fuck, let's get this over with,
shifting contents with every turn
and sudden stop, damn, this 
is a big truck to empty
again
again, again...

you get it.

now, we're all happy
to be in the Village that's
really a city
with its back end butted
against
that east cleveland blight,

they say.

I don't know.

seems pretty good here,
that popular buzz about
diversity -
every gender identity and race with
healers and poets,
transcendental dopers, old lady
dog walkers scooping
fresh fecal lumps from the neighbor's
tree lawn,

young black couples - boy and boy,
girl and girl - holding hands skipping
down the street
singing a song, they think
oz is up the incline and around
the corner, they
don't care (why should we),

the overstuffed transvestite top has
five o'clock shadow and
wants to fight
anyone
who says otherwise,

and too fast drivers from stop
sign
to stop sign
on the phone 'cuz Lord knows
your life is so small you
better fill it with blah-blah-blather
like a
wide-eyed
epicurean got his hands on an
all you can eat without getting
sick buffet.

the boxes are now
in every room of the new house,
undecided about where they'll stay
or go.

burn 'em, I say,
for a fresh
start.