An "FS" truck was in the lot this morning.
My dad worked for that company
Who would remember all the striving,
and stress, the importance of everything,
Who could sincerely thank him for
all those hours, spent.
I don't even really know what he did.
I just remember him sitting behind a desk,
smoking.

The Smithsonian has been posting
portraits of artists.
The names are not familiar.
They are posed self-importantly
spotlit in blackness, in forests,
in a cluttered studio.
And all that is left of them are
a couple of paintings,
in storage,
never to be seen again,
in a big museum.



I need to work on some language and line breaks in this thing.

THIS MORNING

Into my car this morning
Looked out through the cracked
dew covered windshield
The light pouring over and into the cracks
looking for life
I was listening to
"Concering the UFO Sighting
Near Highland, Illinois",
Out onto University Avenue
The few cars plunging into nothing
speeding to god knows where
Everyone was dead
or at least half a corpse
Caseys for caffeine to
bring me back to life
Stubbly men, disheveled women
and those who were extra careful
(who did they think they impressed?)
Migrant workers buying pizza (at 7 a.m?)
coffee, every kind of jarring
chemical conglomerate,
beer, nicotine, candy, jerky.
I got back into the car
and drove off back into
the light.