Houses Without Homes
The Jones’ have left
The hood in the middle
Of the night leaving
A well of red ink.
The water supply,
Good as dead.
In the front yard,
Overrun by vagrant
Vegetation, an army
Of chiggers play war
In the fraying
Belly of forgotten
Who see no evil,
Speak no evil,
Hear no evil
As buttons of senses
Scatter about the grounds
To the edge of the thicket
Where black legged ticks,
Kings of the forest,
Lie in wait to cross
The green on leaves
Of crabgrass to gorge
On the warm blooded.
But it’s too late for the hearth
Hath no warmth.
Within rust tinged aluminum
Skin arthritic beams creaking
Under the weight
Of the bloated air,
Stagnant and mourning
With emaciated memories.
The ghost of a Ford
Fairlane station wagon
With fabricated wood panels
Pulls out of the driveway
Leaving a house
Full of hurt to hand
Down to scavenger
Bankers and strangers
Out to make a buck
On the homeless.
Piss And Vinegar
The stuffed shirt laughed so hard his urine vaporized
A nearby cloud into deliriums of rain.
Waters ravaging the greenery with mudslides
Strewing studs about the hills of shit like matchsticks.
By nightfall the swamp stench overtook the dark lands
Keeping even crickets and looters from their rounds.
The skinhead rose to sounds of yelling and pounding
Sheets as soaking wet as the nights in the cradle.
But mother and father have been dead for so long.
Landlord at the front door screaming for his back rent.
T.V. goes on and obsession and ire shift gears
To news of a government capo on the run.
The stuffed shirt laid low in a plush rented trailer
Sending peons off for a dryer pair of pants
So he could save face facing the press less a mess
Denying he even knew the goddamn punchline
To the joke gone awry and pinning the pity
On the picky, picky pickiness of people.
The skinhead’s solution to the shame of his years
Lies with the promise of delusional glory.
Young Deniro had it right in Taxi Driver,
Nothing like justice from the barrel of a gun.
Where bliss arises from bias in windswept thoughts
Binding what’s left of our shallow minds on the cheap.
The stuffed shirt’s apathy weighs on brows heavily.
Arrogance has only so much of a shelf life
As the public opinion polls advocate
The skinhead’s last remaining shred of sanity
Intoxicated by his drum, bugle and fife
To finally snap and shuffle the cards of fate.
Tony Pena: Poetry isn’t always pretty but it should always be passionate. It’s what Tony Pena hoped to achieve in his self published chapbook, “Opening night in Gehenna.” Some poems have been recently published in “Zygote in my coffee,” “Gutter Eloquence,” and “Underground Voices.” Some performance videos can be viewed in WWW.youtube.com/tonypenapoetry.