The Truck
The truck stops, week in, out, inconvenient in the striving street
regular, if payment is required
to collect the stock piles of baby puke and waste convenience
and plastic worn deliveries, slit and thrown
We’re not to Blame
It’s not our fault, we’re not to blame
we’re just trying to maintain our freedom
we mine our dark materials, this is not a game
because there are other poor people who need ‘em
Why do I do it?
I don’t do it for you , so your thoughts can rest easy
as you nod in your pleasant agreement
while you sip on your drink, peculiar and queasy
at my anticipated long due achievement
If Not This, Then What?
It’s not the Masses, not the torments,
not the nightmares of our longing
Not the grasslands, not the homelands,
not the roads to our belonging
One Day Closer Every Day
Sheep droop jaw and hooves split in the stumble for the hay,
eager teeth picking at the stubble and the crust
Knees buckle their hollow humble eyes stare down and absorb
what was mud is now unsullied deep red dust