Don’t Haul Me to the Dump Yet

The Totalfeckineejit's world-famous Poetry Bus trundles around the continents today as if the Master himself had the controls. Why, yes indeedie, he does!

He, Master of the World's Greatest Blog, Master of the World's Darkest Verse, has set forth a challenge most odd. "Git down wit' yore bad self and tell us who ya be." (I'm paraphrasing)

So if you don't like sentimental hogwash, hie thee over to the Eejit's blog where several brilliant anti-arty-farty types can be tracked down.

Don’t Haul Me to the Dump Yet

I am a breath in a garbage can
restrained
by the lid
hovering over the debris half-filling the can
half-filling the can! Optimism floats
in the molecules of breath, my elemental life
contained
in a paper sack
from a fast-food joint, twisted closed
and disposed of here
hovering over the debris half-filling the can.
Here is the map of my scars
wadded up but still it charts
the web of
red-veined
highways, crosswise roadways that led me
to this half-full garbage can.
Here desiccated flowers prove
my journey passed through gardens
and thus not all was lost
but much
remained
nor is it garbage, the debris
half-filling the can.
Girdles have retired here, napping
with tie-dyed shirts and platform shoes
dried red teardrops on Waterford crystal
the first night alone in my first house
Here Thoreau still beats his drum
Neruda murmurs love songs in coffee-
stained
books.
I breathe. I float.
I gain

more filling.