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Poetry

Poetry

Friday

Its Friday and there are at least 16 things I should to be doing, that neck kink that makes you motionless in front of a studio audience creeps up. Kids never get that. Their dilemmas are Kool-Aid and soda, hopscotch rules or the slide line. Tears are 99.4 percent physical. Everything yesterday and beyond smells kid-sized, greasy, insignificant.

 Live on the scene murder / suicide video stumbles out of reporters' collagen lips, man kills live-in lover then self, mother of three  drowns her own and a neighbor kid in backyard pool before downing liquid drain-o.             Stay tuned for the Nanny coming up next.

 Do people living from fruit-tree to mouth turn to child pornography and accountants when dirt turns to dust ? Do they swim to the island next, piss on the skipper and pin MaryAnn to a tree ?

 No one told me I would end up 32 thousand in debt, hoping for a chance to spend quantity time with 29 7 year-olds, 8 hours a day, 13 days a week. When do I get paid ? Insurance is due ? Library fines ? Your application for the Citibank Visa Double Gold Plated Platinum World Advantages Select Card has been denied ? Indentured servitude regroups for the 21^st century with its own plastic ID card, picture optional.

 Information doubles every 6 months, last year's applications become old files, unwanted, unused, we block time for Jerry Springer who introduces some guy from Chicago who's about to find out his wife is really his brother.

 I'm clinging, as I type this, to the possibility   next year I'll be out of debt and into a place where cockroaches have freedom of assembly.  Things and numbers and acne medication are my gods, they push Paris below the surface, below of the point of no returns,   all sales final.

by Justin Olmanson

P     r     o     g     r     e     s     s     i     o     n 

read at your own risk...

discovered, lost and squandered

death

various people

prayers, hymns and questions

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