{"id":1794,"date":"2012-10-22T14:17:36","date_gmt":"2012-10-22T14:17:36","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.fullofcrow.com\/poetry\/?page_id=1794"},"modified":"2012-10-24T00:22:36","modified_gmt":"2012-10-24T00:22:36","slug":"tony-pena-1012","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/www.fullofcrow.com\/poetry\/archives\/tony-pena-1012\/","title":{"rendered":"Tony Pena, 10\/12"},"content":{"rendered":"

Houses Without Homes<\/strong><\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
The Jones’ have left<\/div>\n
The hood in the middle<\/div>\n
Of the night leaving<\/div>\n
A well of red ink.<\/div>\n
The water supply,<\/div>\n
Contaminated,<\/div>\n
The neighbors<\/div>\n
Who remain,<\/div>\n
Good as dead.<\/div>\n
In the front yard,<\/div>\n
Overrun by vagrant<\/div>\n
Vegetation, an army<\/div>\n
Of chiggers play war<\/div>\n
In the fraying<\/div>\n
Belly of forgotten<\/div>\n
Monkey plush<\/div>\n
Who see no evil,<\/div>\n
Speak no evil,<\/div>\n
Hear no evil<\/div>\n
As buttons of senses<\/div>\n
Scatter about the grounds<\/div>\n
To the edge of the thicket<\/div>\n
Where black legged ticks,<\/div>\n
Kings of the forest,<\/div>\n
Lie in wait to cross<\/div>\n
The green on leaves<\/div>\n
Of crabgrass to gorge<\/div>\n
On the warm blooded.<\/div>\n
But it’s too late for the hearth<\/div>\n
Hath no warmth.<\/div>\n
Within rust tinged aluminum<\/div>\n
Skin arthritic beams creaking<\/div>\n
Under the weight<\/div>\n
Of the bloated air,<\/div>\n
Stagnant and mourning<\/div>\n
With emaciated memories.<\/div>\n
The ghost of a Ford<\/div>\n
Fairlane station wagon<\/div>\n
With fabricated wood panels<\/div>\n
Pulls out of the driveway<\/div>\n
Leaving a house<\/div>\n
Full of hurt to hand<\/div>\n
Down to scavenger<\/div>\n
Bankers and strangers<\/div>\n
Out to make a buck<\/div>\n
On the homeless.<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\n
<\/div>\n
\n
<\/div>\n

Piss And Vinegar<\/strong><\/p>\n

\n
<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
\n
<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
The stuffed shirt laughed so hard his urine vaporized<\/div>\n
A nearby cloud into deliriums of rain.<\/div>\n
Waters ravaging the greenery with mudslides<\/div>\n
Strewing studs about the hills of shit like matchsticks.<\/div>\n
By nightfall the swamp stench overtook the dark lands<\/div>\n
Keeping even crickets and looters from their rounds.<\/div>\n
The skinhead rose to sounds of yelling and pounding<\/div>\n
Sheets as soaking wet as the nights in the cradle.<\/div>\n
But mother and father have been dead for so long.<\/div>\n
Landlord at the front door screaming for his back rent.<\/div>\n
T.V. goes on and obsession and ire shift gears<\/div>\n
To news of a government capo on the run.<\/div>\n
The stuffed shirt laid low in a plush rented trailer<\/div>\n
Sending peons off for a dryer pair of pants<\/div>\n
So he could save face facing the press less a mess<\/div>\n
Denying he even knew the goddamn punchline<\/div>\n
To the joke gone awry and pinning the pity<\/div>\n
On the picky, picky pickiness of people.<\/div>\n
The skinhead\u2019s solution to the shame of his years<\/div>\n
Lies with the promise of delusional glory.<\/div>\n
Young Deniro had it right in Taxi Driver,<\/div>\n
Nothing like justice from the barrel of a gun.<\/div>\n
Where bliss arises from bias in windswept thoughts<\/div>\n
Binding what\u2019s left of our shallow minds on the cheap.<\/div>\n
The stuffed shirt\u2019s apathy weighs on brows heavily.<\/div>\n
Arrogance has only so much of a shelf life<\/div>\n
As the public opinion polls advocate<\/div>\n
The skinhead\u2019s last remaining shred of sanity<\/div>\n
Intoxicated by his drum, bugle and fife<\/div>\n
To finally snap and shuffle the cards of fate.<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
..<\/span><\/div>\n
..<\/span><\/div>\n
..<\/span><\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
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.<\/em><\/div>\n
<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Houses Without Homes The Jones’ have left The hood in the middle Of the night leaving A well of red ink. The water supply, Contaminated, The neighbors Who remain, Good as dead. In the front yard, Overrun by vagrant Vegetation, an army Of chiggers play war In the fraying Belly of forgotten Monkey plush Who […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"parent":934,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-1794","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"yoast_head":"\nTony Pena, 10\/12 - Full Of Crow: Poetry (Archives)<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/www.fullofcrow.com\/poetry\/archives\/tony-pena-1012\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Tony Pena, 10\/12 - Full Of Crow: Poetry (Archives)\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"Houses Without Homes The Jones’ have left The hood in the middle Of the night leaving A well of red ink. 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