Down in a Dumpster (a poem)

Monday, March 31, 2025

What a world,
down in this dumpster.
The fire above—
I’m just gonna sink
deeper down
into this corner.
Forget the trash,
and thank God
for the secure walls
and cover.

Am I a prisoner or guest—
privileged,
or garbage like the rest?
The waste,
the no-good-for-nothing,
tossed,
thrown back,
discarded,
not sought.

The value system—
billionaires calling me out for fraud.
An ugly,
a mark,
a smudge—
“Get the hell out,
you makin’ us look bad.”

Alice in Chains,
down-in-a-hole vibes.
Depression kicks your ass,
and the meds all run dry.
Party’s over.
No survival for you—
we need more money
to keep building these bombs.

Sickman.
Cough, cough.
Need a shower.
“Get a job, loser.”
Undesirables.
Taker-parasites,
feasting on our dollars’ blood.

But the truth is—
what?
The sacred sentient
only matters
when it looks and behaves
like us.

Tent city.
Move ’em off-site.
Drop ’em in Guantánamo—
far from any
empathic cameramen.
“Oh, I love her hair,
and that Rolex—
I want one.”
Guilty.
Just look at them.
It’s obvious.
Praise God
for deportation.

Meanwhile, rich felons go free.
Not just—
we’ve given wealthy criminals the keys
while stigmatizing the impoverished.

Fine people.
Don’t be so mean to them.
It’s these others—
they/them,
partial, biased.
The haves and nots.
Obvious class warfare.

To make a distinction,
to highlight this crime—
the world will bury you,
and all the resources come to bear
to cancel the threat
of having a heart.