The Middle of the End (zengaya) wrote in a_carton,
The Middle of the End

Hey guys, got some poems.

Specific feedback is always appreciated, but since I'm showing more than one poem I'm down with just some general feedback and maybe a little pointing out of lines and phrases that make you think, "what this nigga be talkin bout?!"

Looking out my window

An old man is going
for his morning run.
His pace is hard
and steady,
his feet like
nailing down the street.
His hair is gray with age
and shines
like steel
in the early sun.
His chest falls and rises
like a boxer who won't
give up.
His sweat marches
into his eyes and down
the worn roads of his
wrinkles and
he doesn't give
a damn.
His fists are clenched.

It's in his eyes.
A sharp refusal.
A gorilla beating its chest.
A warrior raising his axe.

He is not running away
from death
he is running

At the swapmeet

of car radios,
frayed sweaters.
Babies in strollers
waving churros
and cheap toys.
Leather belts
and buckles
with marijuana
Men with yellow teeth
and open
Hammers and naked
barbie dolls.
Ugly women digging
through ugly piles
of bundled socks,
stolen shoes,
second hand dresses.
Two dollars
for sunglasses,
for a broken watch
for someone's
Nintendo games.
They are selling
and they
are buying
and you wonder
if it is hard
for all of them
and you study the ponies.
They are beaten
and dull
in slow circles
while the children
cling to their manes
and laugh.
They are too stupid
to escape,
and worse,
they are chained.
And you wonder
as a little girl
cries and runs away
from her mother
and as you wonder
you bargain for
used books
and you walk past
the Raider jackets
and the bootleg dvds
and you wonder.
I drove here
in a new car
that glinted like
a silver dollar in the
morning sun
and look at these people,
these dusty people
in their dusty jeans
and their dusty flannel shirts
and their eyes
like pieces of coal
and their children clinging
to their legs,
are walking
in slow circles.

Checking my bag

The woman checking reciepts
stopped me as I was leaving
and asked to see
what was in the sports bag
slung over my shoulder.

I opened it.

She found two books
by Jack Gilbert and one
by Bukowski.
Some crumpled philosophy essays.
Some notes
on how a person can
be happy.

Alright, you can go, she said,
finding nothing of interest,

and I left slowly,
wishing she had.

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