01 May 2008

White Trash

what's the poison
degradation, the failing
of language — more &
sore swallowing feels the same —
the radiating nervousness,
from the bone out, about
to vomit, to convulse,
in the interest of hiding
your fears you hide them
behind cars, under baseball bats,
inside bottles — half drunk —
in the powder sallow in your

'Who's hiding?'
'What voices?'

the stone rolls back, an open grave,
no body. you know things:
you can't hide what hasn't died;
you can love anything,
but you can't love an unloving nothing;
that voice breaks agonizing silence,
that smell rend comfort because
both are haunting, both
familiar specters; a trailer is just a house
and accents straddle words. you know
things & won't let go
of the trash
in the middle of the road.

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