Favorites #8

We are All here for a Reason
Of course.
In the universal sense
this is always true,
but herein I refer to my
Cabin in the Woods,
a trailer park of Lost Souls
far enough off the beaten path
to render solitude,
or perhaps even forgiveness
to all who enter here.
Commercial fishermen
who drink a little too much
for their former spouse’s liking,
with restraining orders
and children they can no longer visit.
everyone is somebody else’s
Recycled hopes and dreams
households financed
by disability checks
and structured settlements,
where rainbow children
of every shade and hue
play in the yard
with pit-bull dogs
that are part of the family
beside a car on blocks
that Mama’s boyfriend
is gonna fix someday
after he gets up
from his nap.
Disabled Viet Nam veterans
with hidden wounds that
will never heal,
tattoos and scars
or maybe a limp,
that never end,
and that
thousand-yard stare
that betrays the pain
they never willingly show.
Widows and spinsters
who live for their flower gardens
and cats
to replace the children
who never call or visit,
the husband who died
or ran away,
or the gentleman caller
that never showed up.
whose husbands
their best friend,
their sister,
or even
their daughter
or who couldn’t
stand to be left alone
when their husbands
went to work too long
while the cable was off.
Rock stars who fell to earth.
Fallen Angels
with burnt wings.
Porn actresses
from the
who knew Ron Jeremy
on more than just a first-name basis,
and have the videos to prove it.
…and so much love to give…
(if only
you can just
pierce her armor),
their hearts
melt like butter in the sun
if you simply befriend them
without agenda
or guile,
because they’ve heard it all before,
and they’ve done it all before
in the name of fame and fortune,
but just for once,
if they could do it all over again
for Love,
do it all over you.
Enough Ink on skin
between them all
to write
War and Peace
in longhand.
There’s a story
for every tattoo
and all the time in the world
to tell each one of them,
with nothing better to do.
Their combined tears
could drown the
Lake of Fire,
and yet they still prefer to laugh,
and gladly share
their Nothingness,
their time,
their weed
or booze
or dope
or bodies
like philanthropic millionaires.
Misery doesn’t just
love company,
it thrives on it
and makes them stronger
most of the privileged
I knew
in better times
and more prosperous days.
This place
where I have landed
is more like
a campground
for refugees
driven from their
“the slings and arrows
of outrageous fortune…”
who refuse to die
and can’t really seem to win,
but continue to try.
(That’s what the Lotto is for.)
These walls are so thin
on these foil-covered
cardboard boxes
we call home;
there can be no secrets
between us,
but no shortage
of excuses,
or lies
told mostly for their own benefit
as we wander
on the tar-clad paths
these aluminum tents
like spaced-out
space-age Indians
with permanent
about their temporary domiciles.
Home is where
the Art is.
Life is what
you make
of what you get.
And Love
is everywhere,
running like a river
of blood
in the streets
from all the broken hearts
that have ever lived
or ever will.

3 Responses to “Favorites #8”

  1. I feel like you’re seeing beauty everywhere in this.

  2. This is lovely – full of love and so sharply accurate. These are people I know. Thank you for seeing the light in them.

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