Robin C. Pinkman- Two Poems

 Either Way to the water

 I don't care if this poem ever is

 observed by anyone (but myself)

 or if anyone ever started a poem

 like this, or if it's any good, or

 about anything (because i am

 observant)  i want free of people

 and the world  i don't want to

 think about what's original  and

 i don't need to admire anymore

 as i see how things are at the

 moment  as the water drains

 which i drew for no reason  but

 only to listen to it trickle, and

 sparkle, and for the warmth, the

 fluid heat of it  so i don’t care if

 ever this poem is observed but

 by myself (when i'm in my right

 mind)  the rest of the time i write

 ridiculous poems to myself  which

 litter the street under the stale

 glow of the traffic light, alongside

 the rest of the morning garbage, the

 adds for whores which the homeless

 scoop up with beer cans and bottles

 and whatever else might amount to

 something  so they can keep moving,

 like everything moves  because

 everyone's homeless  it's true  Man

 has no place to rest its head  most

 people just have a building to sleep

 inside of  because the sidewalk is hard

 and uncomfortable  it's true  and they

 wake you up at 5AM so you can scrape

 yourself up off the sidewalk like a

 smashed snail  and feel all the cold  all

 the raw fog of the morning  and insect

 eyes  and the bottom of the sea  and all

 as Man sets up for another sordid day

 of vegetable business  with vegetable

 mouths and eyes  and i wander toward

 home horrified, and worried, and in a

 perfect state of agitation  to see the  

 shadow of concentric rings like a light

 to make things clear  as the vortex circles

 above the common drain  and i laugh at

 myself and the swarm of flies outside in

 the stairwell  and how it didn’t occur to

 me sooner.

                                          

 more on environmentalism

 I could give a shit about landfills,

 and even think they may be beautiful

 and even remember looking forward

 to them as a child, and finding them

 interesting  there was nature all over

 the place (with birds and sun), and it

 seemed like an honest end for things

  much nicer than the places things

 came from  with the smell of life and

 truth filling my lungs and my nostrils,

 and urchin children left alone with

 nothing but cigarettes to smoke and

 broken cassettes to play with  to tell

 you the truth, it was a heaven  a heaven

 compared to the prefabricated row we

 all inhabited in one way or another  we

 all inherited in one way or another  with

 the intent of an antiseptic ensconcment

 which lingers like a sack of rotten

 potatoes until the sun burns out.